Significant Digits
by adeebus
Summary: (Continuation of Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality) It's easy to make big plans and ask big questions, but harder to follow them through. Find out what happens to Harry Potter-Evans-Verres, Hermione, Draco, and everyone else once they grow into their roles as leaders, leave the shelter of Hogwarts, and venture out into a wider world. Permanent home: anarchyishyperbole com
1. Frontloading Mysteries

_Welcome! It is highly recommended you check out the updated and properly-formatted version of this story (and some other goodies, like a glossary) at anarchyishyperbole dot com. I hope you enjoy it._

* * *

Ninety percent of everything was terrible. This was also true for people: ninety percent of them were dumb.

Reg Hig contemplated this unhappy fact as he stared at a copy of the _Daily Prophet_. The headline read, _UNITY APPROACHES. _Underneath, a smiling duo of clear importance were dipping their heads in identical bows before a dozen witches and wizards in trailing robes. The Tower and the Goddess, adding another country to their growing global hegemony.

It was tempting to crumple the paper in one angry fist, or perhaps to burn it into theatrical ashes. But he intended to scrutinize the lead story carefully, and he was certainly not going to buy a second copy of this propaganda sheet. The _Daily Prophet_ had been a mouthpiece of the British ruling class since the time of his grandfather, and it was no different these days, now that a new Dark Lord and Lady had taken control.

It was almost comical the way each new Dark Lord followed the same playbook. The first step was to eliminate the main opposition, through assassination or spellcraft. The second step was to stack the local Thing (in Britain, it was the Wizengamot) with their followers. The third step was to take control of the leading newspaper. And last of all, almost as an afterthought, they would take over the local Ministry of Magic.

Still, Reg thought, it certainly made sense to use a tried-and-true method. History showed the wisdom. At the height of the Reign of the Eleusinian Mysteries, Sulla the Fortunate marched on Rome and took power by force, wresting it from the Optimates in the name of the Muggle masses. He ruled with absolute power. Forty years later, a successor did the same thing, championing the Muggle cause in the Senate and seizing power by force. Twenty years after that… well, you get the picture.

All else equal, a winning move would stay a winning move... until and unless you changed the rules. That's why the third successor of Sulla the Fortunate had quietly murdered all of his opposition, and had launched centuries of tyranny. Augustus Caesar had decided to change the rules, and he had done so with admirable effectiveness.

Reg stood from his desk chair, walking to the fireplace. He stamped his foot on a bright-green bellows at the fireplace entrance, barely breaking stride as he stepped into the flare of green flame and said, "Westphalian Council."

There was a brief moment as he walked from the travel room into the council chamber itself. For obvious reasons of security, the Floo network was not connected directly to a place of such power and discretion as the Westphalian Council's meeting chamber, or with the offices of any of the councilors.

Walking into the chamber, through a shower of Thieves' Downfall, Reg saw that there was only one other councilor present, sitting behind one of the tiny desks. Limpel Tineagar was a gangly woman, and she always looked a trifle silly folded up on the little chairs of the meeting chamber. As she leaned forward to peer at a parchment, her limbs seem to be too long and thin. Limpel resembled nothing so much as a robed spider.

"Reg," she said warmly, "how are you this morning?"

"Very well," he replied, walking down the tiers until he was on the level below her. He was almost a foot shorter than her, and if he had tried to take advantage of a rare opportunity to loom over someone by standing next to her, it would have seemed ridiculous to them both. Power should not be obvious.

"I assume you've heard of the French capitulation?" she asked, her tone less cheerful. "The cowards fall, one by one."

"That is why I am here," he said. "We must call a meeting, and we must discuss what the Americas will do. Inaction is no longer an option - not with Thing after Thing formally agreeing to the darkest of rituals! If we wait much longer, then it will be too late."

"A preview of your speech?" Limpel asked, her mouth twisting with amusement. She was a cynic, and had no native passion in her. "You rouse me with your stirring words."

Reg frowned slightly, and leaned forward, putting his hands on her desk and looking at her with frank directness. He was not an intimidating man, he knew. Short and ill-favored, he had a broad face with a plum nose and dark eyes. The dense black stubble around his mouth was irregular and resistant to every razor and charm. He was not charismatic and he was not scary.

But he was _very_ persuasive.

"It's no joke, Limpel. Blocking the international statute only delayed Britain for a few years. Europe has now agreed to the Tower's demands almost as a whole, saving only the brave Cappadocians. France has already begun putting in place the necessary procedures to comply with the treaty. Thus far, it's only the harmless things - Healer's Kits and all that - but it won't be too much longer before Safety Poles are set up in Quiberon, Beauxbatons, Aix-en-Provence, and throughout Paris! Brainwashing available at the touch of a finger!"

Reg lifted a finger in the air.

"One Thing stands in the way: our council. We've been fighting this Atlantean nonsense for centuries, and we're about to lose for good. History will mark down this council as the one that failed… unless we take a stand.

"I don't know if you've ever noticed that, in an emergency, people in a crowd are slow to help. Someone gets hit by a Quaffle and falls into the stands, and everyone just stands back and looks shocked. No one in the crowd feels responsible - they're just _watching_. But when there's only one bystander, that person knows that it's on them. They have to intervene. And that's us, now. That's the Westphalian Council. We've spent years fighting for the rights of nonhumans and Muggles! We sent dozens to fight Grindelwald, and after Boston, we sent dozens to fight Voldemort. We're the only ally of the goblins that hasn't already sold their souls to this new Dark Lord.

"It's us. We're it. And if we fail, then that's the end of everything. Goblins in chains, Muggles start dying by the millions, and Westphalian Council becomes one more footnote at the bottom of the page, reading, '_Also destroyed in 1998 was the Westphalian Council, a once-important American wizarding union._"

Limpel's smirk had left her face, and she was solemn. "You're right, of course. Sorry."

"No need for apologies, Limpel," Reg said, shaking his head and leaning back. "Just give me your word that you're with me. The next Dark Lord has risen, and we need to stop him. There is no one else… we are the battle line, here in this council."

She was nodding now, her mouth tight.

"So this isn't a speech, Limpel, but a request," he said, looking her in the eye and speaking with the earnestness of an honest man. "Will you help me stop Harry Potter-Evans-Verres, before he destroys the world as we know it?"

* * *

"You smile too much, 'Harry,' " Hermione Granger said to Nymphadora Tonks, lightly. "For anyone who knows the real fellow, it's a dead giveaway. You should spend more time looking serious or thoughtful. Alastor says that it's important to put yourself in the right mood, and so when he's being Harry he just pretends everyone else in the room is a child. He says Harry acts that way anyway, and it helps him be the right kind of condescending."

"Mad-Eye Moody says the meanest things I've ever heard _anyone _say about someone that they love like a son," Tonks said. She was running her finger up and down the lightning-bolt scar on her forehead. "It would be cute if it wasn't exactly as creepy as everything else Mad-Eye does."

Hermione shrugged. "I think it's sweet, really."

She pushed through the swinging wooden door as they exited Prestidigitation and Practicals. They were already being stared at, the moment they stepped out into Diagon Alley but that was okay. That was useful.

Hermione and Tonks-as-Harry made a beeline for the Safety Pole that had been fixed in Diagon Alley nearly two years ago. Their pace slowed as word spread. The Goddess was well-known and often out in public, but the Tower rarely ever left Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry. To see him, you normally had to be either incredibly important or incredibly ill.

Harry was essentially in prison, Hermione reflected, as she gingerly moved through the crowd. He was trapped in his rooms at Hogwarts, forced to send magical doppelgangers to major events. If an official envoy insisted on meeting him in person, and that encounter seemed likely to require Harry's unique gifts, then that envoy simply had to come visit. As it turned out, this was better for everyone, on all counts. Harry was still not known for his social skills. There were other benefits, too. For example, the arrangement made it impossible for anyone to pressure a fake-Harry into an on-the-spot decision.

Ordinarily, Harry himself might have been the one to point out the advantages of being forced to confer and consider on any major decisions - of being _pre-committed _to that deliberation. It was right out of Schelling's _The Strategy of Conflict_, after all (page 30, her mind automatically supplied).

But Harry couldn't actually understand the whole concept, as she'd discovered when she'd tried to talk to him about it. Once he'd gotten important enough, he'd simply stopped wanting to leave the safety of Hogwart's. His Unbreakable Vow wouldn't permit him to "take any chances" with the destruction of the world, and at some point he had begun to consider that there was a small chance his presence might be necessary to save it. It was a very small chance, but it was a chance. He was too unique, perhaps - the single point of failure in too many possible systems. Hermione knew that this was why he did so much teaching. She had never felt the same constraint, though, despite her similar Vow. Was that humility on her part… or realism?

"Unbreakable Vows," Harry had said, when she had tried to encourage him to grapple with the situation, "are very effective. They don't work like genies in stories - I'm bound by the terms of the vow as it was meant, I think, in a way that makes me do my best with it. So while I understand what you're saying in the abstract, I don't _want _to want to leave Hogwart's or evade the Vow. Sorry."

It was sad. He was his own jailer.

Automatically, Hermione was smiling radiantly and giving small nods to people. At this point, basic public relations were on autopilot for her. It was easy. Her beauty helped. Maturity would probably have evened out her features anyway, but she also got a teensy-weensy bit of help from the dark ritual that had infused her with the unearthly magnificence of a unicorn. Plus, she'd been a world-renowned hero for several years now. As the old adage (and Sunshine Army slogan) had it, "Practice makes perfect."

"Thank heavens for you," a young woman said, reaching out to touch Hermione's arm. The woman looked to be something like thirty, but she stood with self-conscious straightness. She was probably one of the healed. Hermione nodded at her graciously, and eased by.

The prickling sensation in her arm began a moment later.

She glanced down, and saw a streak of something granular and colorless. Hermione's head whipped around, and she scanned for the young woman. Gone in the crowd. The prickling had already become a burning, and she even thought she could smell smoke. Some of the people nearby, already pressing close (which is how this happened, she thought) were backing away, their wands coming to hand and fear coming to their faces.

Hermione ripped the sleeve off of her robe, and scraped some of the substance off her skin. As she did so, she heard Tonks-as-Harry casting spells, waving her wand and calling, "_Protego Totalum! Evanesco! Cave Inicum_!" But there didn't seem to be any further immediate danger, and now the surface of Hermione's arm and robe were both burning with an oily black smoke. Even scarier: it didn't hurt that badly.

She plucked out her own wand, and spared a moment for the Fresh-Air Charm; a mint-scented breeze ruffled up around her and swept away the smoke. Keep the crowd safe. And she had to keep them safe from their own panic. She knew she was just being silly, and that she was buying into her own hype, and that wizards were essentially immune to crowd crushing (there weren't ever enough gathered in one place outside of a Quidditch arena, first of all, and wizards were naturally tough), but she couldn't help herself: she hunched over her arm and raised her wand to her throat. "_Sonorus! _Everyone, don't worry!" Her amplified voice was clear and strong, and accompanied by a reassuring smile. "Stay calm." _Your arm is burning, and you can't really be seriously worried about them_. _On the other hand, _they_ don't regenerate and we have an image to maintain._ "Everything is all right." _It's a powder, not acid, and it doesn't smell like Faux Floo. Is this a distraction? _She glanced around. Tonks was next to her, wand raised, glancing back and forth from her to the crowd. The gathered wizards and witches were either frozen in place or backing away, with a few taking a cue from her freshening charm to put on Bubblehead Charms. No one was taking advantage of the disturbance to attack.

Almost too late, she saw the black knapsack lying on the ground at her feet.

"_Waddiwassi!_" The knapsack rocketed up into the air as Hermione cast the spell on it. It was an incredibly easy and quick spell to cast, a light tripping of syllables from the lips to the back of the mouth. Twice as fast as _depulso_ and eight times as fast as _wingardium leviosa -_ Hermione didn't know why anyone would use anything else.

With a cracking boom that sounded much like a thunderbolt, the backpack detonated.

Tonks-as-Harry turned to Hermione, even as the boom echoed around them and people were screaming, and hissed one angry word. "Malfoy."

* * *

Percy Weasley was maybe the best government employee imaginable, Harry Potter-Evans-Verres thought to himself. He watched the young man admiringly as Percy described the new accords reached within the International Magical Trading Standards Body. One could always find witches and wizards with the necessary competence and leadership, but it was so rare to find someone with actual _perspective_ \- someone who knew that unexciting things like standards for cauldron thickness really and truly mattered, and that a three percent increase in the cauldron failure rate meant thousands of Galleons in lost wealth (and perhaps even actual loss of life, if some poor potion brewer couldn't make it to a Safety Pole).

These attributes are why Percy was effectively in charge of the Ministry of Magic from his position as Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic. He didn't think about outcomes in terms of narratives or story. He thought about them in more absolute terms: so many Galleons saved, people saved, options saved. Even better, Harry thought, Percy was absolutely loyal.

"...moved more quickly," the young man was saying, solemnly. "These larger Vanishing Cabinets - we're calling them Vanishing Rooms - do present a serious security risk, though. And there's a risk of splinching, with such a volume, if anyone is inside when the shipment goes through. You were absolutely right, though… we can move a thousand times as much now. It actually brings up an interesting problem. Apparently we're shipping _out_ more than we're shipping _in_. It all comes down to…"

Reflexively, Harry considered if his appreciation of Percy's loyalty was a Voldemort thought, tuning Percy's report on trade deficits out of mind for a moment. Was it wrong to consider personal loyalty to himself as an inherently valuable trait in an ally? Perhaps it was, he thought. It was not consistent with how he valued his other lieutenants. Amelia or Mad-Eye would turn against him quickly if they thought he was corrupt or evil, and that was good. While obstacles in general wouldn't do him much good, experience had often shown that he tended to underestimate his own biases. Capable allies who could be relied upon to defy him, if needed, were invaluable.

Harry went to work, mentally, picking apart the thought and turning the instinct to his own use. In his youth, he had treated his mental simulation of Voldemort (his "dark side," he remembered with amusement) as a closed programming loop that would accept input ("This is my problem.") and output an answer ("_Try killing everyone in your way, maybe?")_. That answer would sometimes need to be rejected or modified in the fact of contrary ethical guidelines, of course, but at its core, he had treated the Voldemort thought-patterns as an opaque sort of special reasoning.

That had been silly, and the huge disadvantages had become obvious after a year spent clumsily clomping around the intricate plans of two geniuses. He had acted with the absolute self-assurance and total obliviousness of a first-year psychology student, and it was only thanks to the advantage of actually _knowing the future_ that one of those geniuses had managed to succeed (almost despite Harry's best ignorant efforts).

So, he had spent some time integrating the Voldemort simulation into his own psyche, and now routinely examined his thinking to critically assess his success. Sunlight is the best disinfectant, after all, and he would have been a fool to ignore Amelia's concerns ("Young man, if there is a Voldemort in your head, then you can either crush it into submission or we can carve it out. The choice is yours.") Harry glanced down at the ring on his finger, an unadorned metal band.

Harry returned his full attention to Percy, hoping nothing important had been said in the meantime and feeling a little shabby about having let his thoughts wander. Fortunately, much of the report had been for the benefit of others. Harry had already studied sufficient economics, but much of his council was still learning the essentials. The education was necessary, since economics were a weapon and a tool of state.

"...so this is actually to our advantage, and we may be able to use it as leverage." Percy concluded. He glanced around the room for questions, then settled his rawboned frame back into his chair. He was a striking young man, tall and thin with the vivid red Weasley hair and freckles. He had once been balding and bespectacled, but Harry had taken care of that.

"Thank you," Harry said, smiling. "It's always good to have another tool to use, should we need it." Truth be told, it probably was never going to be useful. It was hard to even say that a trade deficit was a bad thing for anyone involved, and that was especially true with an economy nearly decoupled from labor. But it might be a propaganda point, to be brought up in a negotiation or something.

"Now let us turn to the next item on the agenda," he said, glancing down at the parchment. "Amelia, you had Ms. Bogdanov and Ms. Covenant meet with their respective Muggle equivalents in the Medicines and Health Products Regulatory Agency? How did that go?" Ilya Bogdanov and Tilly Covenant were in charge of the Office for the Detection and Confiscation of Counterfeit Defensive Spells and Protective Objects.

"Not very well, Harry," Amelia Bones said, rising from her seat in turn. She was a plain-looking young woman, with a square jaw and chestnut hair pulled back into a tight bun. She looked (unsurprisingly) much like Susan Bones, her niece. "Bogdanov didn't give it a chance, and came to me to tell me that it was, and I quote, 'a tragic mistake to think that Muggles should be in charge of any part of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.' She specifically mentioned that the Muggles had proposed that anyone who tests magical devices should be blinded." Amelia leaned forward and glared at Harry. "I told you that this would happen, Harry."

Harry sighed. He'd thought they were further along than this. "The Muggles didn't mean that the testers should be literally blind. A blind study is ju-"

"A blind study is a study where the examiners keep themselves ignorant of the origin of what they're measuring, yes I know," Amelia interrupted, curtly. "You know that and _I know that_ but these witches weren't looking for knowledge. They were just looking for an excuse not to change their minds."

"Yes… 'most people would rather die than think, and many do.'" Harry quoted. "But Amelia, we can't just fire the heads of every office, just because they're not working with us as smoothly as we'd like.". They'd had this argument before. Harry thought it was better to have the dozens of recalcitrant officials dragging their heels on the inside, rather than agitating on the outside. All the real troublemakers might have been decapitated in a single night, long ago, but that didn't mean it would be a good idea to give some of wizarding Britain's most prominent witches and wizards a direct reason to oppose the new regime. Amelia would have none of it, though.

"We don't have to fire them all. But we fired Shacklebolt, to make an example, and it wasn't enough. How about we just demote some of this dead weight, instead."

"And get around the Peter Principle? Hm." Harry paused for a moment. "You have a point there, actually. Table this now, maybe, and we'll work out the possibilities?"

Amelia nodded, just as the door burst open. Hermione and Tonks strode into the meeting room, clothes still damp from rapidly evaporating Thieves' Downfall. Tonks looked furious, and as her hair lengthened into her typical shoulder-length, multicolored long locks, it framed a iron scowl. Something had gone wrong, it would seem.

Like all rooms in the Tower, the meeting room was an odd quadrangle. It was an odd side-effect of the most important aspect of their security protocol, which required the entire Tower complex to be shaped as one giant triangle. It was odd, but it did mean that entrances could be particularly dramatic, which was useful for negotiations. The very shape of the room pointed everyone's attention at the narrow wall, where the open door framed an irritated Hermione Granger.

* * *

"Hello, everyone. Sorry for the rude entrance," she said. She glanced around at the group, which collectively represented most of the power of magical Britain, not to mention the greater part of Europe. Her eye paused for a second on Charlevoix, one of her Returned and a witch who had been instrumental in the recent French agreement. The excitable woman was almost out of her seat in alarm, scarred hands clenched on her chair. Hermione's glance communicated peace, and Charlevoix's face softened. Hermione turned to Harry, who had risen and was waiting patiently for her to speak.

"Harry," she said. "Malfoy just blew up a bomb in the middle of Diagon Alley. No one was hurt, but dozens could have been injured or killed. I know you have a plan, but that couldn't have been part of it. What is going on?"

She watched as he absorbed this information. Harry looked slightly surprised for a moment, and then his mouth pursed, and then his face relaxed.

"A Muggle device that casts _deprimo_," murmured Percy Weasley to the rest of the table. Amelia Bones already seemed to know, as did a few others (like the Muggle Liaison), but most had seemed uncomprehending. There was quiet murmuring in response.

"Was any property destroyed?" Harry asked, seriously.

"No," she said.

"Thanks to Hermione," Tonks said indignantly, from her spot behind the Goddess.

"No one was hurt and no property destroyed… was it a very small bomb? No, you took care of it. Did you put it into a pouch with an Undetectable Extension Charm, or something?" He looked thoughtful.

She shook her head. "No. Wait, would that even work?"

They both paused for a second to consider it, but he was the first to shake his head. "Not really, I don't think… although it might contain the blast and direct its force out of the opening of the pouch." He made a note on the margin of the parchment in front of him - an agenda to their meeting, she thought. "We should look into that."

"Especially now that Malfoy's started using bombs," Hermione said, archly. "Harry, you look like you understand what's going on, and that you're not worried. That makes _me_ worried. This is a new level, and it could have killed a lot of people. But you don't seem to be taking it seriously. Just what is going on?"

Harry shook his head, reaching up to tuck a lock of his hair back behind his ear. She had noticed that he usually tied it back these days, but he'd left it loose this morning. Also, he was wearing Muggle clothes - a three-piece grey suit, with a blue silk tie. It looked rather well on his short and spare frame, but he tended to favor wizard's robes, these days. Were these subtle signs of distress at his imprisonment? Maybe he - or his subconscious - was feeling the effects of the long confinement. She set the thought aside for later consideration.

"We're at war, Hermione. You know that." At least Harry no longer looked so sure of himself, although it was probably only because he was worried about her. "They're going to keep ramping things up until they get a reaction, or until we capitulate on something."

Cedric Diggory spoke up from the end of the table, his voice kind but firm. "And that doesn't worry you, Harry?" The young auror looked skeptical.

"There's a plan. We're on track - two new Unspeakables arrived with reports just today, and there are new breakthroughs." Harry looked around the room. No one looked reassured. "I know I've been saying that for a long time-"

"For years," Tonks interrupted. She sounded frustrated.

"-I've been saying that for _years_, yes." Harry smoothly continued. "But you have to trust me on this. We can beat Malfoy and the whole faction… it will happen." His eyes moved from face to face, asking their trust. "There's a plan. It has been extremely complicated and unbelievably secret, but very soon now we will beat Narcissa, once and for all."

* * *

Sometime later, a young man with a lightning-bolt scar on his forehead sat down with a sigh on a small wooden stool. He was alone, and this room was private, admissible only to him. He could slump wearily without worrying about his posture. No one could see.

In front of him, on another wooden stool identical to his own, was a small black box. It was smooth and shiny, marred only by the pair of small hinges and the ornate lock that held its lid on. He stared at the box sightlessly for a while as he thought, letting his eyes glaze over and his mind wander.

Harry sat like that for a long time. Eventually, he blinked rapidly and returned to himself. He spoke to the box, quietly.

"I'd like to talk. But I won't let you out."


	2. Buffering Conflicts

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* * *

Hermione stood in front of her Returned with her hands clasped in front of her, her face neutral.

"Welcome, everyone. And welcome especially to Charlevoix, who is joining us here for the first time." She nodded at Charlevoix and smiled, then grew serious again. "We have some important things to discuss, and I'll need your help with them.

"First of all, we're going to talk about France and what this means for everyone's safety. Where are we going from here? How can we help? We want to save lives. And that includes Cappadocia… how can we save lives there, too? We have some news on that front, in fact.

"Secondly, Narcissa Malfoy has begun attacking using Muggle weapons. She went after Nymphadora Tonks and me two days ago, as I am sure many of you heard. The bomb she used didn't hurt anyone, but that doesn't mean that the next one won't be more successful. We're all going to have to study up on these things and learn about them.

"And last of all, there will be tea and cake. Make sure you thank Hyori, who brought it for us all."

She sat down, and turned her attention to Charlevoix, who rose and stepped forward. The Returned met at the grounds of Powis Castle, on a wide stretch of grass. The only thing there was an enormous section of a fallen tree. Most of the tree had been carted away, some years ago, leaving only this part, and some thoughtful groundskeeper had sawn out a rough wedge with four turns of a chainsaw. It left a comfortable and rustic seat on which Hermione was sitting. The Returned conjured or brought their own chairs. Powis Castle rose into the sky nearby, beautiful terraced gardens surrounding it like the setting of a jewel.

Tonks had once asked why they didn't meet in the castle itself. Hermione had answered her with a proverb of real estate: you always want to buy the ugliest house in the neighborhood. The building was beautiful, and you can't see that from the inside.

Charlevoix spoke, her voice soft and touched by a French accent. She wore robes of light blue and a plain silver necklace, and she looked exactly like your aunt. It was a mysterious property she had - she even looked like the aunt of people who'd never had an aunt, or like the aunt of someone whose family was tall and Scandinavian (instead of short and brunette). It made Charlevoix something like maternal to all, while still being distant. And then there were the scars, of course. As she stood before the gathering, they were visible along her fingers - knotted tissue that still looked pink and angry. She had no fingernails.

"Thank you, Hermione." They didn't call her 'Goddess' to her face, thankfully. The whole situation had been hard enough to accept as it was. "It is my pleasure to be here, finally. I have been glad to contribute." She paused uncertainly.

"Have there been any problems back home over the Treaty for Health and Life?" Hermione prompted, helpfully. Technically, they were supposed to be operating under Robert's Rules of Order. But she'd given up on the whole 'the speaker recognizes' and 'motions' thing after it became clear that it was just a facade. While the Returned were intelligent and passionate, they ultimately deferred to her on every opinion and strategy. It was a humbling experience, and pretending otherwise was cruel and pointless.

"No," Charlevoix answered. She relaxed a little as she spoke. "There was some difficulty in obtaining enough Healer's Kits for Paris, but more were soon shipped through with Vanishing Rooms. And I have had owls from all over France to tell me that Safety Poles are already in place. More than a hundred people have been restored since the treaty was signed."

Hermione thought about that number. France had something like fourteen thousand witches and wizards, they'd calculated. It was fewer than might be expected, given France's larger population than Britain, but there were many good possible explanations for that. Harry probably already had someone investigating. One hundred people might seem like a lot in only a few days, but probably many of them were injured or critically ill. Really, this meant that something like fifty people had chosen to be restored of their own volition. And since she was usually too optimistic about these things, the real number was probably forty. She made a mental note to check and see whether or not she was correct. Calibration was important.

Charlevoix's soft French accent continued. "It has been a very good start, I think. The Ministère de la Magie was very charmed by the whole process, and by your gifts, Hermione. Ministre Isidore has been making speeches about saving lives, and about justice. He even said _pas une minute de plus _\- not one minute more - although I do not think he meant it that way."

There were small smiles from many of the Returned. That was significant, since they were a group not given to large displays of emotion. While they were all healthy and young (of course), most of them had a hollowness behind their eyes, and joy rarely seemed to touch them.

"And… so that is where we are, I think." Charlevoix concluded. Perhaps she wanted to end on a high note.

"Thank you, Charlevoix," Hermione said. Why was it that the way Charlevoix spoke Hermione's name made it sibilant and beautiful, while Hermione's own attempt at the French witch's name sounded like she was murdering the syllables with a banjo? "This is all very good news. But while we should be happy about it, the Tower did remind yesterday that it raises our profile even further. On the next trip we make, we are going to have to be even more careful. You are helping me, and that makes you all targets."

Esther spoke up, an American witch. "And you as well, Hermione."

"I'm not worried about myself," Hermione said, smiling wryly. "Having died before, I have no intention of repeating the experience." It was actually twice, now. But that would only worry them. It was not as though they could possibly be even _more_ protective of her, after all. "But it does bring us to Cappadocia, and some bad news. There might be more lives to save. I recently heard that there might be a Dementor-guarded prison there. Urg told me about it when he was delivering gauntlets to me, and it might explain why they rejected the treaty."

In another gathering, this might have brought about murmuring or questions. But the Returned were silent and intent. They were listening. They were human beings who had been touched by the absolute, and it had left them changed.

"Simon isn't here today. He's off investigating that rumor, along with Urg. I think we'll find out very shortly if it's true. Dementors are difficult to hide. If the rumors are true, we'll be making plans and moving very soon." Hermione glanced at Charlevoix. "_Pas une minute de plus_, right?"

Charlevoix nodded. The scarred fingers of her right hand flexed, and curled into a fist.

* * *

Not every major world event was caused by witches and wizards, no matter what pure-blood activists might assert. Unfortunately, Reg knew that those fanatics flattered themselves into thinking that Muggles were basically animals, who could never have done anything important on their own. Over the years, he'd read completely serious books arguing utter nonsense. He'd read that the evidence showed that Plato had been a wizard, since the language and ideas of free Transfiguration matched his writings (heaven forfend that wizards might have copied a Muggle's choice of terms!). He'd even read an argument that a wizard had caused the eruption of Mt. Vesuvius with a careless _Tarantallegra_, which was almost offensive in its absurdity (simply from a magical standpoint).

That being said, a wise man looked behind the headlines for a hidden hand. Recently, numerous American Muggle charities had found unexpected luck in fundraising. There didn't seem to be a pattern to the organizations chosen - a foundation for promoting "critical thinking," a legal society that worked to preserve the wetlands - but it had been the talk of the Muggle newspapers for months. Reg prided himself on being well-informed, so he sought out all sources of information - not just _The Mercantile, The Daily Prophet, The Quibbler_, and other newspapers, but even things like _The New York Times_, as silly as that might be. Most of it focused on the tedious minutiae and trivialities of the Muggle world, but real news often lay behind the inanity.

He explained it to Limpel as they sat in his home and waited for a portkey to be delivered. Fat, overstuffed couches and armchairs sat squat on the hardwood floors in the Hig parlor. A grizzly bear loomed in a frozen roar nearby, preserved as a statue with the perfection that only magic could achieve.

"It's a big move, Limpel. He's setting up his own power base in the Americas, using Muggles as pawns. These charities have gotten millions of Galleons in donations in a way that can't be traced." Something about 'laundry,' which hadn't really made sense. That was one problem with the Muggle news… one fact led to another and another. It took hours to completely understand any single story from their bizarre world. Hiding the origins of money as a metaphor for clothes cleaning, which they did using devices that they had in their homes, and which devices were seemingly large drums, but not _musical _drums… impossible. You had to cut yourself off somewhere, or else you'd be awash in useless information.

Limpel nodded. She was reclining in her large chair, arms crossed. The outline of her sharp elbows were visible through the sleeves of her robes. Her face betrayed momentary discomfiture. "Millions of Galleons? The Council's whole budget is only two millions, that's so much… no, you must have checked. All right, that's odd. But what is the advantage to this power base among Muggles? What's the point?"

"That's the rub," Reg said. He ran his hand absently over his face and chin, listening to the whisper of skin on whiskers. "It's a completely new tactic, first of all, so it's unlikely anyone else has put these pieces together. It's never been done before, and so it slipped right by everyone. I bet if we checked back in Muggle newspapers in Britain, Germany, France, Italy, Bulgaria, and other places that the Tower and Goddess have taken control, we'd find the same pattern. Remember that I'm predicting that, Limpel, without having checked."

"All right," Limpel said, skeptically, her thin face pinched. "I'll remember. But even if you're right, that doesn't mean that it has anything to do with the Tower - or even that it's a bad thing. Maybe he's just being charitable."

An intelligent and perceptive person who just enjoys being contrary as a matter of personal pride is an invaluable companion, Reg had found. They were terrible at parties, where they'd corner you and argue about the exact color of dog you needed to chase away a nogtail or the precise temperature you needed to melt steel, but essential for intrigue.

"Okay, you're right. I can't prove it's the Tower. But these are huge amounts of money. From what I read, the budgets of these charities increased by tenfold or a hundredfold. The total amount, just in the Americas... it's as though…" He struggled for a moment, beetling his brow. "Just imagine how we would feel if someone donated eight million Galleons to the Westphalian Council, Limpel."

"I'm not arguing influence, Reg. You could buy my left buttock if you gave me a million Galleons. But what's the point? I feel as though you're telling me that you suspect that the Tower is recruiting an enormous army of ants. Yes, that could hypothetically be dangerous, and yes, given what we know about him it's unlikely he'll use it for good. But even the biggest army of ants is still just an army of ants, and we have a Scouring Jinx for a reason." Limpel shrugged and smirked. "The Tower doesn't seem stupid. I don't know why you think he's wasting his time on this, or what you think he expects to gain."

"Ants or not, they're still people, and they have all sorts of devices. More to the point, there's literally billions of Muggles. And just look at your reaction! Not only does this not seem plausible, it wouldn't worry you even if you knew it was happening." Reg wagged a finger at her, dark eyes intent. "Doesn't that just seem like the sort of thing he'd do? You've read the books about him, don't pretend that you haven't. The Muggle devices, the businesses, all of those things came from this same odd angle. Who else would spend this kind of money, and on idiocy like swamps?"

"Yes, Muggles don't worry me. They're people who deserve to be free, but that doesn't make them a threat. A boggart doesn't worry me, and that doesn't make it a serious threat, either. Appearing harmless usually just means you're harmless Plus, if the Tower wanted a Muggle army, then he'd be buying soldiers, not saints."

"He already has the Goddess and her damned army of ghouls. This buys him influence. These organizations are all over the Americas, and they'll be expanding offices and making purchases. It's the perfect cover for any number of other moves, like building his own bases. It's a lot easier to snatch someone from Boston if you're local."

He rose from his seat, walking to the window. "The snow is thick, Limpel." He turned back to her. "It has been for months, now. It seems harmless, as it builds with every flurry. And it's only snowflakes. Even a thousand snowflakes piled up are meaningless. Ah, but billions of them? They hide so much, and they can be so cold."

Limpel was no longer smirking, although she still seemed skeptical. "I don't quite believe it, Reg. The Muggle world of money has always seemed to be opaque to me, _especially _whenever you've tried to explain it. I suspect you don't know quite as much as you think. You did, after all, try to tell me about a business that pays other businesses to give them their bad loans, and somehow makes money this way. So don't be so confident you're on the trail. But I will say… it is indeed worth examining further."

There was a knock at the door. Reg walked to answer it, glancing at the Whosit Clock on the wall near the entrance. Its hands pointed to "New Visitor" and "Expected." He turned to call back to Limpel. "The portkey is here! Make yourself ready."

He opened the door. A friendly young man in cheap grey robes smiled up at him, and said, "Hello, Mr. Hig. Adams Couriers, with a delivery for you, sir. A portkey."

Reg accepted a canvas satchel from the courier, touching his wand to the man's own. There was a spark of silver between them, as the delivery was certified true and accurate. "Thank you, young man."

As Reg moved to close the door, the courier spoke up. "Have a good trip, sir! Going on vacation?"

Reg glanced back at the man and shook his head. "No, I'm afraid not. I'm going to Britain. I'm going to war."

* * *

_If I eat this sandwich, could it end the world?_

Harry sighed, and bit into the sandwich. It could, actually. That was the problem. He was an imaginative man.

_By eating this sandwich, I am incrementally increasing the demand for wheat. While unlikely, it is possible that this slight increase in demand causes the price for wheat to tick up just enough that it rounds to another whole Knut or penny in some local market. Multiplied by a whole seasonal crop, that could make the difference between someone paying the rent on their fields or becoming insolvent. A small child, brilliant beyond measure, watches his family become bankrupt and becomes embittered and angry at the world. In fifteen years, he gets access to uranium by ordering thousands of smoke detectors._

Or worse:

_If I threw out this sandwich, it probably would get _Scourgified_ away by one of the aurors. We don't yet know how magic works, and it's possible that there is a finite amount of magical force being expended by the universe. The casting of that _Scourgify_ might be the last bit of power necessary to power the mystical future machine that would prevent the total entropic heat death of the universe._

Or even worse:

_I take a bit of the sandwich and start to choke. My wand is caught in its holster, and I left my pouch by the bed. No one is here right now except the aurors, and I'm far enough that they might not hear me. There would only be one place to go for help, and even the security protocol might hypothetically fail if I miscalculated..._

No. Harry swallowed uncomfortably, his mouth dry now. This was ridiculous. He was positive it was ridiculous. It _had _to be ridiculous. He couldn't prove how, exactly, but he must know on some level that these infinitesimally small probabilities couldn't be allowed to hijack every possible decision. If he didn't know that, with some reasonable level of certainty and in his best judgment, then he would not now be eating a sandwich.

The Vow was an elegant spell. It didn't rely on some objective meaning of the terms, since there could never be such a thing as "objective meaning" when speaking of human communication. There was always _différance _\- a gap in the bridge between intention and understanding. Even _Legilimens_ wouldn't serve, since it was only a shallow dip into another's mind.

No, the Vow relied on his own best efforts at interpreting and fulfilling the meaning the Vow, as he understood it. It didn't even work from his conscious reasoning, but at some more fundamental level. More effectively than any of Harry's best efforts, his Unbreakable Vow let him rely on what was truly his best judgment, free of biases or heuristics. He could be fooled or mistaken or simply too stupid, but no amount of self-deception was sufficient to overcome its power. If he thought an action might end the world, he could not do it.

The unsettling thing, though, was that it apparently did not indulge itself in the contemplation of those events that had a very small likelihood but infinite disutility.

Harry had discussed this with Hermione. She had quoted Blaise Pascal, saying, "Wherever the infinite is and there is not an infinity of chances of loss against that of gain, there is no time to hesitate, you must give all." And she had been right - it was Pascal's Wager. Logically, any known possibility of infinite sorrow outweighed all other finite considerations.

It didn't actually work out that way, though. The horde of tiny infinities had not swamped him and starved him to death.

It was even worse, though. It wasn't even necessary to fabricate fanciful and tortuous chains of events: he had _killed _before, and he saved _countless _lives. How had he changed the possible futures? How many of those possible futures now led to doom?

"_I vow that I shall not by any act of mine destroy the world. I shall take no chances in not destroying the world. If my hand is forced, I may take the course of lesser destruction over greater destruction, unless it seems to me that this Vow itself leads to the world's end and the friend in whom I have confided honestly agrees that this is so. By my own free will, so shall it be."_

This morning, Harry had healed a baby with spina bifida. The boy had been born with a malformation of his spine - myeloschisis. During development, part of the neural tube had been left folded and protruding. On the infant's back, just where the gentle curve at the bottom, had been a red-raw sac, greenish with infection. It had troubled him to see, for he only did the actual healing for a small percentage of the Tower's visitors. Usually, he only came by afterwards.

There had been a need, you see. There were many healing charms and potions in existence, but some diseases were too rare and unusual. They brought these unluckiest of the unlucky to the Tower. They also brought the old, in a flood that gradually lessened over time. They brought the dying, yanked from miles away by Safety Poles. The tide of injured humanity came from all over Britain and Ireland and Scotland and Wales, and as the years passed they were joined by German wounded and Italian elderly and Scandinavian sick. Soon there would be French people being brought to the Tower, being healed and restored by new and secret "special techniques" in one of the wards, and then touched by the miraculous Harry Potter. Harry Potter, who made sure to visit every single one with a kind word and a comforting hand on the shoulder.

The Tower staff had developed systems, and improved on them daily. There were specialized spells they'd developed further at the Tower, to heal through free transfiguration. It had rarely ever been done, since it was ordinarily quite fatal. There were some fixes that were possible, of course… you could, in theory, transfigure a tumor away and off, and then heal the resulting wounds through other magics. But such injuries usually had well-developed magical cures. So the cleverest and most trusted witches and wizards worked with Moody and Atul and Minerva (when she found the time) to devise a systematic way to restore the world.

And so this morning, he'd touched his wand to the baby, and had wordlessly cast the Inspection Charm. The interior of the child's body opened before his mind - a wizard's parlor trick, used to find hidden compartments in desks or some such stupidity, which they'd turned into an MRI. Harry knew the human body with profound intimacy. The ivory knobs of vertebrae, the fatty sheath of myelin, the layered bore of arteries. They all had their place, and he reshaped the child and sculpted him anew. The delicate traceries of nerves and fibres joined above and below, and the whole covered in flesh.

The mother would be grateful. She would send him something - a message, some money, a token - and treasure him in her heart, for now her child would live. And how would her life change? What would the baby do, now that he'd been granted life? Would he do something, discover something, invent something… to destroy the world?

The Vow gave him no special knowledge. He couldn't know that his choice to save lives or to end lives might not lead, in any instance, to the destruction of the world.

Harry had sworn to take no chances, quite literally. How was it that he could sit here on this stool and eat this sandwich, and not be paralyzed by the miniscule chances for disaster inherent in every action? Why could he ignore the risks, when he had sworn to ignore no risk?

Was there danger there? He was already ignoring the possibility that his positive actions could bring about the destruction of the world, if in some roundabout way. His mind had rejected the most stark interpretation of his oath. So what was the worst-case scenario? If his judgment was sufficiently compromised, on the deepest of levels, could he fool himself and the Vow?

How deeply was he really bound?

Harry chewed his sandwich, and thought.


	3. Resolving Differences

_Feedback and comments really help me, either here or on Reddit._

_Note: "Butter-ball Charm" refers not to any modern American trademark, but to Krishna's Butter Ball in Mahabalipuram, India. It is near Chennai, and quite interesting._

* * *

Cappadocia was not a very peaceful country. Three times in the last twenty years, it had gone to war with one of its neighbors, the island of Cyprus. This was something of which Hermione was acutely aware, since the last war had only been two years ago, and British witches and wizards felt an extremely strong bond with the Cypriots. _The Daily Prophet_ had run stories about the sufferings of the beleaguered Cypriots, and the treacherous dealings of the Cappadocians. It was all very suspicious, since tiny Magical Cyprus mostly spoke English and was dominated by several wealthy and influential wizarding families, while sprawling Magical Cappadocia had few cultural bonds with Britain and considerably less money. Barbarians versus the elite made for good copy. Harry controlled _The Prophet_, she knew, so it was odd the paper had been so uncritical. She supposed he didn't micromanage.

Actually, Hermione considered, since most Cappadocians spoke Greek as well as Arabic, they couldn't really be said to be "βάρβαρος." That nasty term had been used by ancient Greeks to describe those who _couldn't_ speak Greek. It was onomatopoeia for what the Greeks had thought foreigners sounded like: bar-bar-bar-bar. Maybe she should write a pseudonymous letter to the editor, pointing this out, the next time the country hit the headlines.

Hermione gripped her broom tighter, increased her speed, and glanced around at the warband. Simon and Charlevoix were flying next to her, while Esther and Susan were below. Just above and behind her, Hyori and Jessie rode their own brooms, faces tight. She might need to write the letter soon. Somehow she thought Cappadocia would be in the news very shortly.

She looked down at the ground racing by below. Stone pillars sprouted up from the windswept rock below - the fairy chimneys. Tall and smooth, they studded the ridges and plateaus, looking for all the world like the frozen fingers of some trapped race of giants. They were natural formations - not ventiform, as the wind-whipped dust that swept past them might suggest, but worn away by years of cracking frost and whittling rain. Hermione looked away from them, leaned forward, and squinted ahead. Those white hills, there… yes. They were close. She raised her right hand and gave the high sign, and Hyori and Jessie peeled away from the group, swooping along a different path.

The fortress of Göreme, situated near the Turkish town of the same name, was protected in three ways.

First and most importantly, Göreme's existence was a secret. The best way to protect anything was to make sure that no one knows it exists. If you are unscrupulous and willing to use _Obliviate_, you could keep something very secret indeed.

Second, Göreme was inaccessible. It had its beginnings in a cave complex used as a Christian church during the eleventh century. The church remained, though it was now known as the Limon Kilise - to describe the sour feeling in the belly one experienced when visiting. The long and narrow passage through to the larger set of natural caves, on the other hand, had been erased by the Butter-ball Charm (which turned stone as soft as butter). Göreme was now surrounded by solid rock, and the depths of the fortress reached two hundred meters beneath the dust of the surface.

Third, Göreme was guarded by an army. The Exarchate of Cappadocia (which had no place in Muggle history, however important it might be to the course of magical events) did not station pairs of aurors or teams of Hit Wizards. Göreme was military, and its Dementors were weapons, and its guards were soldiers.

Cappadocia was not unique in the wizarding world for possessing a specialized army rather than relying on policing forces or militia. While the Peace of Westphalia had established the idea of an explicit "magical state," and the establishment of the International Confederation of Wizards pushed these states into formal organization, numerous personal fiefdoms persisted well past the end of the nineteenth century. It is true that political pressures, like the International Statute of Secrecy, and social pressures, like increasing education and Quidditch, did much to consolidate these pockets of autocracy into the same oligarchies that ruled much of the world. But nonetheless, some modern oligarchies and _all_ modern autocracies had standing armies.

Truth be told, it would be difficult to say whether the Exarchate of Cappadocia was dominated by the sitting Strategos, or if the wealthy _sakellarioi _simply established new figureheads at regular intervals. Either way, it didn't matter to Hermione. Political reform of this (literally) byzantine country was secondary to another concern: the Cappadocians had Dementors, and they fed prisoners to those Dementors to keep them manageable. And that was not acceptable.

Hermione pulled up on her broom, slowing down, and the rest of the group matched her deceleration. She came to a stop, and pointed one finger at an uneven plateau of rock, far below them. "There. Bubble up, everyone. _Bullesco_." The Bubble-Head Charm sprouted from one nostril in its disturbing way, a single small translucent bubble swelling in the span of a breath until it encompassed her entire head. It wobbled a bit before settling into place. The other four witches and wizards did the same, ensuring they would have a supply of fresh and dust-free air.

Alarms would be going off in Göreme about now. She didn't know exactly what their response protocols were, but they had an immense number of jinxes overlaid on the area. No Apparating, no Time-Turners. There was an Anti-Disillusionment Charm (a term which gave her linguistic heartburn). Further, there was a charm to prevent broomstick enchantments from functioning. It didn't extend to this height, so as not to betray their position to a chance passerby or intruding Cypriot, but all of these jinxes limited their ability to respond. They could certainly be turned off, but what use was a precaution if you dropped it at every moment of alarm?

It was difficult to guess what they must be doing down there, deep underground, glued to their Foe-glasses. They had probably sent for aid. Were they confident that they were safe, unreachable down under all that stone? _Diffindo_ did a great deal of damage to rock, but it would take long minutes for such a small attack force to blast their way down.

They didn't know enough to be afraid of 9.8 meters per second per second.

Hermione reached into the pouch at her waist and groped around for a second. She felt her nails scratch into something, and hoped she hadn't just damaged something important. It was one of the most annoying things about alicorn fingernails… even if she kept them nightmarishly short, they could still accidentally scratch things if she wasn't careful. Super-strength and claws might sound cool, but fingernails were definitely not designed to work like an animal's talons. It was embarrassing to accidentally ruin furniture, and it was annoying to pick the resulting detritus of stone, metal, or wood from where it would get embedded.

When she found the sextant, she lifted it to her eye and sighted through the eyepiece. The bubble around her head jiggled under the pressure as it warped. She found the horizon and adjusted the declination of the index, clicking it along to the proper minute and second. She checked the measurement, then checked her watch, and lastly checked that she was directly over the big white rock. Then she clicked her wand right next to the aeronautical sextant's index bar, and said, quietly and repeatedly, "_Finite. Finite. Finite. Finite. Finite. Finite. Finite. Finite. Finite._" She paused, then cast the spell ten more times for good measure. Her targets were enormously large, but also rather far away. She'd probably missed with most of those - no reason not to be sure, since the spell took so little effort. She was canceling her own magic, and so she cast the easiest and least powerful version of the spell and needed to put very little of herself into each iteration.

There was a long pause before the first beam of depleted uranium hit the rock beneath them.

Hermione could feel the impact in her inner ear as the roar of sound and air and dust blasted into the five mounted witches and wizard. They were quite high up… but then, it was quite an impact. Harry had told her about the idea, gifted to him by science fiction (_The_ _Moon Is a Harsh Mistress_ by Robert Heinlein, her brain automatically supplied). Set high enough, the impact could have had the force of a nuclear weapon. But that would have required Muggle technology, which didn't work in the presence of magic (and it would have been overkill).

The whole thing was complicated enough. It had initially proven impossible, no matter how exact they were and how many calculations they did, to actually hit the beams with a _Finite_ to end their Hover Charms. They'd tried attaching huge sheets to the beams to act as bigger targets, but they'd only acted as parachutes to drag the beams away from the necessary spot. The only way Harry and she could get it to work, after much experimentation, was to glue long threads of transfigured Teflon to their transfigured beams. The many threads were insubstantial yet easy to hit.

After the first beam hammered into the stone - once they knew it was working, but before the next ones struck with their own blasts of sand and dust - Hermione and her Returned clumped together and Susan cast a _Prismatic Shield_. They watched the next four beams hit in close succession. One was badly off target, but as far as she could see, it had missed to the north, rather than to the south. Hermione was willing to destroy the Limon Kalise if she had to, but she'd rather preserve it. It was an excellent representation of Byzantine Christian architecture and art.

The best Muggle bombs couldn't penetrate much deeper than sixty meters or so, even the ones currently under development, Harry had said. Well, nuclear bombs could do better, but that was out of the question. It didn't matter, anyway. They didn't want to penetrate and murder everyone.

They weren't trying to crush the wasp's nest. They were trying to shake it up enough so that all the wasps came out to play.

Metal fell from the sky like the wrath of an angry deity. Each concussion had reached them even beyond the _Shield_. Göreme was no hardened facility, like the Muggle military bunkers Harry had discussed with her with such pleasure. There was no anchoring or precautions taken against impact. It was essentially just a set of buildings constructed into natural caves. It would be very susceptible to some vigorous shaking.

They waited a few minutes, remaining still and in place. After a while, a green bolt of light streaked out of the rock below. It went the wrong way and vanished into the sky, nowhere near Hermione or her Returned. It had been shot blindly. A clever idea in its essence, undertaken by some desperate and vicious soldier, but the odds of a blindly-aimed curse hitting them were microscopic. She noted the trick down in her memory for later consideration.

Figures appeared on the ground below. Twenty or thirty, perhaps. The witches and wizards inside were using their portkeys to get outside to face the attackers who had just rattled them with a half-dozen serious earthquakes. An instant later, curses began pouring up and at Hermione and her tightly-packed crowd of convenient targets. Susan dropped her _Shield _without needing to be told, and they all separated and began dodging.

Hermione had thought that the soldiers would be coming on brooms, but they didn't seem to have disengaged that jinx. Odd... that left them as distant infantry fighting an air attack. Perhaps they didn't feel threatened, since the Returned were high enough that neither side could really effectively aim? No, that didn't seem credible… they'd just had their secret military base smashed by mysterious metal rods from the sky. They would definitely be feeling threatened.

Hm, a powerful attack or jinx that they were readying? Or were they just too rattled to get their act together?

She shrugged, and gave the high sign again. The Returned began reaching into their own pouches, scooping out pots, and dropping pot after pot. The pots were padded or altered in all manner of ways, the legacy of a school project that both Hermione and Harry had done when they were ten ("Class, we are going to be trying to figure out how we might drop an egg from the roof without the egg breaking. Please look at the first page of your worksheet packet…") There were some with small parachutes, some with inflated bladders, some with thick padding, and many others.

To be honest, it probably would have been better to actually test these first, and see which ones worked the best. Then they could have copied those. But this way had been much more fun. When Hermione had gone to Tesco for crafting supplies, Harry had given her a list as long as his arm, and she was fairly sure he'd spent all night on his six designs.

Esther, on the other hand, had looked at them as if they were crazy and had just cast a Charm. She'd been done with her six pots in sixty seconds. Philistine.

Many of the pots smashed with great force onto the rock, seeming like some direct and pathetic bombardment. One landed directly on a wizard, but exploded into flinders and dust when it hit an active shield. A few others landed with such ease and grace that she bet they weren't even cracked, and so they had no effect.

Others, though, were simply smashed open. And the young Mandrakes that were awoken from their warm and comfortable napping in the dirt wailed in protest.

It was a common Muggleborn trick, she had to admit. People who entered the magical world after growing up in the more safety-conscious mundane life of Muggles were frequently astonished that there were so many dangerous spells, plants, and creatures, much in the way that few pureblood witches and wizards who'd seen the accident statistics could understand the use of automobiles. To the Muggleborn, it was immediately obvious that these deadly things could be used directly as weapons.

She'd read a dozen books about why this was a foolish idea. In the first place, the scream is easily warded by an adult witch or wizard. Further, they only scream when awoken, so you must awkwardly go to battle with a fairly obvious large container, making surprise difficult to achieve. Even further, Mandrakes take most of a year to fully mature. Until then, their scream will merely cause unconsciousness. There were many other spells that could be cast that did not require most of a year of preparation and a large flowerpot, and which could not be blocked by numerous trivial charms. The plant had its uses, but the practical ones were almost universally as a potion ingredient.

Mandrakes and chainsaws made poor weapons, and for much the same reasons.

All of those caveats were true, and all of those scolding books were wise. But if you wished to attack from beyond wand distance, unexpectedly, and with the intention to stun?

Bombs away.

Hermione had no intention of making this a fair fight. As long as you controlled the battlefield, you controlled combat, and she'd come prepared for an aerial war. They had tricks upon tricks upon tricks. There were a thousand different clever things one could do quite beyond normal magical dogfighting. If she could eliminate most of the enemy like this, before they'd even had a chance to take to the air, then this fight would be short and safe.

They'd run out of Mandrakes. Hermione peered down, squinting. From this vantage point, it was hard to tell, but only ten or eleven soldiers still seemed to be moving. It was time for

falling

It was time for falling, apparently. Hermione's broom went dead as a stone between her legs. Ah, she mused, letting it tumble away from her fingers. That's why they didn't turn off the jinx. They were just working on making it _stronger_. Clever defense, she didn't know you could do that. Two overlapping fields, perhaps, with one usually off? The wind whipped her robes against her face as she fell. How long? Seconds.

Hermione reached to her wrist and slapped a bracelet there, hard. Never fight in the air without a backup.

Hm. Beater Bastion not working. She slapped it again.

It was a safety device meant for Quidditch, and it was supposed to be reliable, but she couldn't help but notice that she was still plummeting.

She twisted in the air, scrambling for her wand and looking for one of the Returned. There was no one… getting closer to the ground now… a few seconds… no, there, Simon, if she could just... no, damn, where'd he go… there was Esther but Stunned, no no… have to move, can you swim through the air?... turn turn turn, _there he is_ there wand up and YES "_Arresto Momentum!_"

He vanished from her sight, jerked away as his descent rapidly slowed.

And that was the last thought Hermione had for some indeterminate amount of time.

* * *

She could see. Her eyes had already been open, so she hadn't needed to do that. But she could see. They must have just healed. She felt nothing. That would be her spine, broken. Lucky, lucky. This would be much more unpleasant, otherwise.

Not sure how long she'd been out. A minute or two, probably. She'd fallen quite far, but wizards were resistant to blunt trauma generally - some quirk of magical inheritance. Also, Hermione was a troll/unicorn woman, and rather hard to hurt.

Hermione couldn't stop herself from blinking the blood out of her eyes, but remained still otherwise. She couldn't see anything. Unluckily, her face was pressed against a large rock, and it entirely blotted out her view. She listened, instead, and waited for her body to finish healing.

"Τι συνέβη [What happened]?" A male voice shouted. A female voice called back an answer, but was too far away to be audible. No mandrakes could be heard, so the soldiers must have killed the exposed ones.

She heard a slight crackle as her neck healed, the bones pushing themselves to where they were supposed to be, and drew her breath sharply as the pain of her body screamed through her. An inarticulate shout tore from one of the soldiers nearby - so she'd been seen. Well, nothing for it, then.

Hermione jerked one leg in front of her and pressed against it, spinning herself into a sidelong roll. There was a wash of heat along her back as she did - a missed curse. Nausea assaulted her with the motion, but she ignored it. Her leg wheeled over her spinning body and impacted the rock, and she levered herself up onto it. The spin improbably became a vault, and she landed on her feet in a crouch. It was an act of fluid beauty, and it still seemed unreal that she was capable of such effortless grace.

Fourteen men and women in Cappadocian robes (sharply pointed sleeves, swooping long break in the fabric in the back) stood before her, their attacks halted for the moment now that she was motionless. She'd counted badly, or they'd already restored several of their number. She only saw one of her Returned: Simon. He stood nearby, arms raised. She'd saved him, but all of his emotion was concentrated in anger: the fleshy Scot was scowling at the soldiers. He'd been disarmed. That was smart. But neither she nor he had been Stunned. That was foolish.

The other Returned were not visible. They had probably hit the ground hard, and their emergency portkeys had broken with the impact.

Her own wand was probably somewhere around here. No matter. The soldiers were watching her warily. They were surprised but not awed, so maybe the fall hadn't looked as impressive as it had felt. Still, she gave it a try, speaking in clear and awkward syllables: "Θα πρέπει να παραδοθούν. [You must surrender.]"

There was an absolute and complete absence of contemptuous laughter, scornful retorts, or other displays of bravado. Instead, several of the soldiers glanced at one of the tallest among them. Considering the offer? There were no marks of rank visible, and Hermione surmised that this man, who was watching her edgily, was some sort of unofficial leader among the group. He had an impressive chin - broad and cleft. Could a fantastic chin make you a leader among men?

Whatever thought process had gone on in the man's mind did not end in Hermione's favor. She could see it in his eyes, once he'd decided. It was disappointing. They must know her - some of them had even probably seen her in the flesh before, since she'd visited Cappadocia a dozen or more times - but she and Simon were disarmed and Hermione was a bloody wreck. Hermione thought she must not be impressive enough. She'd better work on her image some more. The more fights she could win without actually fighting, the better. It would make eliminating all the Dementors that much faster.

The man aimed his wand at her again and shifted his feet. Other soldiers picked up on the same cue as Hermione, but as they all made ready to fire, she already was diving to the side and plunging her hand into her pouch. Curses flicked over her and behind her as soldiers barked their spells. One curse - a Severing Charm, maybe? - opened up her back as it struck her squarely. She didn't know how badly - she was already on her feet, dodging and flinging a glass orb the size of her fist at the soldiers.

Big-Chin was a quick thinker, and his wand flicked to the side to track the orb as it flew at them. "_Reducto_!"

The orb shattered well before it reached them, the glass (actually a perfectly and wondrously thick hollow borosilicate glass sphere, courtesy of transfiguration) detonating as its pressures were released. Big-Chin and another soldier, the closest, were staggered by the explosion and the wash of warm air that swept over them all. Simon, unarmed, had dared only cover his face with his hands. He'd known what to expect, and took advantage of the distraction to immediately slap the small of his back with one palm. He disappeared with a wet sucking sound as his portkey was broken and activated.

Hermione dropped to a crouch as the soldiers opened fire again. She rammed her right hand into her left forearm, below the wrist. Curses flickered overhead with coruscating light. One brushed her leg, and she lost feeling in it. Even as she went sprawling, though, she was already ripping a slender and gorey wand from her left arm, and casting another _Finite _with bloodslick fingers. She didn't have to aim the spell. The air in the sphere had been quite concentrated.

If she'd been evil, she would have transfigured acid, though it would have been trickier with the pressure pump and chamber they'd used. This was just water. Water, water, everywhere. In a drizzlingly thick cloud around them, in their mouths (tasting of dust), and in their lungs. Even worse, they'd all taken a few panting breaths over the last ten seconds or so, respiring transfigured air from what must have seemed like a small bomb.

In the lungs of Hermione and fourteen other witches and wizards, the alveoli which clustered like grapes along the bronchioles had transferred oxygen into their blood and bound it into red blood cells which raced down capillaries and arteries. The oxygen was immediately put to work throughout the body in every living cell, producing ATP in a trillion mitochondria all throughout their flesh.

In an instant, though, a significant percentage of that oxygen had just been reverted back into water.

And that was the last thought Hermione had for some indeterminate amount of time.

* * *

She could feel. She was on her hands and knees, her fingers buried in the rock in front of her. She was blind and deaf. But she was alive and conscious.

Hermione rested for a moment in the sudden peace of deafness, then pushed back onto her heels and rose to her feet. It was not difficult; this one hadn't even hurt. Some percentage of the cells in her body had just died. The exact number was hard to even guess, but she didn't imagine it could have been much. Half a percent?

As her vision slowly returned, along with her hearing (for now, mostly a high-pitched whine inside her head), she revised her estimate. All fourteen of her opponents were either writhing in gasping agony... or lying still and grey.

Wasting no time, though she was a bit unsteady on her feet, Hermione plucked yet another object from the Pouch of Poorly-Conceived Weapons Intended for Bombardment. She trotted quickly from body to body with the device, which was a potent relic from ancient and bygone days: a chrome money-changer. It had once dispensed coins for a train conductor.

At each body, she clicked the changer over them. A coin dropped onto them, and they vanished with a wet sucking sound. Off to be saved, off to the Tower, off to the only man in the world who could heal these injuries.

The changer made a wonderfully satisfying sound each time, though she didn't dawdle to enjoy. _Ker-chak. Ker-chak. Ker-chak. Ker-chak._

Along the way, she found her regular wand and put it back in its holster. The still-bloody Ultimate Ulna (she was proud of the name) went into her pouch.

When she finished, she stopped and looked around. Hermione was alone on what had once been a rocky plateau but which was now a shattered moonscape. They might actually have cracked Göreme open, from the look of the mighty crevasses that still smoked from the impact. Her robes were ragged and burned and slashed, even soaked through with blood in many places. Her wounds were gone: in just the past few minutes shattered bones had pulled together, a deeply slashed back injury had knit closed, and billions of detonating cells had been transfigured back into life. No Dementors, though. There must be more soldiers, holding them in their pen. The pen where they were fed.

This had been poorly planned. She knew better, too. When you are making a plan, look at each step, and ask yourself: how can this go wrong? Once you have done that, and satisfied yourself with the answer in each respect, ask yourself a second question: what _two_ things can go wrong at the same time? Always plan for two independent failures.

She'd planned for the bombardment to fail, or how to handle a broomstick failure, or if the enemy found a way to target them in the air, and everything else. But it hadn't been enough. All of the first line of her warband had been taken out in the first engagement (though they had come to no permanent harm) because the broomsticks had failed _and_ their safety net had failed. Not paranoid enough, she murmured to herself with annoyance. Alastor will be disappointed.

Hermione plucked her wand from its holster, and readied herself. Then she _expected_ the Dementors to come to her. It took no effort, for it seemed the natural course of events. _I am here. I am waiting._

_Come and get me._

Before her, two score of black and indistinct shapes emerged slowly through the blasted stone. They were hungry and evil and wrong, these wounds in the world clad in ragged cloaks. They were her great enemy, and there was nowhere in the world that they could hide from her. She would hunt them all down, unless they took her now. Hermione willed that thought out at them like a weapon, and if someone had been watching at that time, such as Hyori and Jessie (who flew in a wide circle out of range of the fortress, waiting for green sparks to summon them), that person would have seen a fierce joy in Hermione's eyes. She had died twice in these past six years, and she had made death her dearest foe.

She raised her wand, and opened her mouth to cast.

And then her world was flame.

She wasn't sure what had happened. In some conscious part of her mind, she knew that the soldiers who had been guarding the Dementors down in Göreme must have portkeyed to the surface once their charges had escaped, and that they had turned some spell of fire upon her. But that thought was beyond her at the moment, because there was fire hot on her face and burning her _burning her_. Fire, that could hurt her quickly enough to incapacitate her. Fire, which had killed her once already. She shrieked as her flesh seared.

The Dementors were already there, and she felt their presence like a stain of hate that saturated her, even as the fire roared around her and devoured her. They were close enough and numerous enough that their presence began to consume her. The touch of their evil felt like despair, and it whispered into her mind and it sucked away at her marrow.

Hermione fell to her knees, and knew dimly that she was dying once more. The thought beat down on her as though it had great black wings, pulsing down and driving her to the ground.

She would burn and she would die.

She would burn and she would die.

She would burn and she would die.

But

But

But there were things to be done.

She was on fire and Dementors were eating her and the soldiers would kill her _but there were things to be done._

Hermione rose to her feet, staggering. She shrugged off the hatred that sucked at her soul with a sheer effort of will. She _defied it_, and gasped something through a burning throat, and then raised her wand once more and shouted her spell past pain and smoke. Her voice was inhumanly powerful, afire with passion and flame.

**"_Expecto Patronum!"_**

Fire swirled around her, crackling in her hair and turning her robes to ash around her. She ignored the flames, though the skin on her neck and arms reddened, cracked, and charred. She ignored the soldiers who poured fire on her. Her world was her wand and her spell.

And so it was that Cappadocia came to know why she was called the Goddess.

For the white light that came from her wand was no white mist and no argent animal. It was not even the shape of a silver human being, though none of the witnesses would have expected that.

Hermione's patronus was the noonday roar of the full sun. It was bright beyond measure and glorious beyond words. With its puissance, she was ineluctable and divine.

Barely visible through the squinting eyes of the onlookers, forty Dementors shuddered in place.

Their substance ruffled as though in a strong wind, their black cloaks billowed back into shreds and threads, and they and their despair ceased to exist like a candle had been snuffed.

Hermione lowered her wand.

The flames died away, though her robes hung in smoldering and ashy rags around her. Her body was a mass of pain, but that was temporary, and was already beginning to fade. More slowly than before, but the charred flesh was bubbling back into skin and replacing itself. She plucked at a locket around her neck to free the chain, so that the piece of gold-and-green jewelry wouldn't stick uncomfortably inside the healing wound. She raised her wand to send up red sparks - there were prisoners to rescue - and turned around with a searching glance. Who had been burning her?

Ah, over there. That had been the trouble. She saw two Cappadocian soldiers, collapsed and motionless. They'd been badly burned, as well, but had lacked her advantages. It was a dangerous spell, the sort you'd normally bring to bear on an army of Inferi rather than one lone woman.

Hermione Jean Granger, the Goddess and the sworn enemy of death, sighed to herself, pulled a chrome coin changer from the pouch on her belt, and started saving lives.

* * *

Deep in Whitehall lies the Ministry of Magic, from which every aspect of magical Britain's government and bureaucracies are officially run. Deep in the Ministry of Magic lies the Department of Mysteries, where magical research is conducted and the most esoteric problems are investigated. And deep in the Department of Mysteries lies the Hall of Science, in an immense chamber that once held the collected prophecies of the nation.

In the Hall of Science, five witches and wizards huddled around a magnificently long hickory table. Mafalda Hopkirk, Dolores Umbridge, Luna Lovegood, Basil Horton, and Nemeniah Salieri thought they had just made a great discovery.

They verified their preliminary result. Horton, a sturdy-looking older wizard with the physique of an athlete gone to fat, raised his wand and cast, slowly. "_Lumooos. Lumoos. Lumis. Lums. Luums. Lumos. Lumoos. Lumis. Lumos. Lumos."_

The spell, cast with the worst imaginable skill, only took on the tenth try. Horton's pronunciation only vaguely approximated the necessary syllables and his wandwork was abysmal: when he had performed the very slight and simple dip of the wand necessary for the spell, he had waggled his wand as though palsied. It would have been embarrassing, had it not been intentional.

The spell was one of the weakest known. When cast this badly, it yielded a barely visible soft yellow glow. It was an extraordinarily slight bit of magic.

Horton held his wand next to a thin golden rod. The half-meter rod was mounted to a bulbous and unworked lump of obsidian. It had been sunk deep into the crusted grey rock-rime on the lump's top. The rod vibrated in place, gently, as the wand approached.

Lovegood and Umbridge looked at each other. Umbridge's lips were pursed. She did not entirely approve of these experiments into the workings behind the Trace, the charm that detected underage magic. But there _were_ interesting possibilities for control here. She nodded shortly to Lovegood, and the two of them stepped to the other end of the table and picked up a grey metal lattice thickly interwoven with green vines. There were no roots to the vines, only many tiny leaves.

In unison, Lovegood and Umbridge set the lattice over the rod-and-stone device. Horton did not alter the exceedingly soft glow of his spell, yet the rod stopped vibrating. Everyone involved looked at each other in satisfaction, although perhaps only Luna Lovegood truly understood the importance of what they had discovered.


	4. Established Patterns' Predictive Value

_For a version with a correct title and better formatting, consider visiting this story's more permanent home at the following link: __goo dot gl/Q8hwLb_

* * *

The family of Nikitas Seyhan had spent generations in the Taurus Mountains at Külek Boğazı, watching the pass through the peaks from among the rocky crags. It was harsh and cold at Külek Boğazı, and there were few Muggles (or, as Nikitas knew them, "Μύγαλος") around. The Seyhans and the few nearby families had very specific concerns, such as caring for the kneazles, ensuring there would be sufficient food, and guarding against giants. They did not live glamorous lives, and had little contact with the outside world.

In a world where every witch and wizard can Floo and Apparate and portkey and Vanish on a moment's whim, this isolation might seem strange - if not downright stupid. "Why," we might ask, "do these foolish people not just travel to a nearby city and catch up on some of the modern advances?"

The Seyhans would have stood to gain a great deal, had they educated themselves. There were numerous simple spells that would improve the Seyhan lifestyle. Uncle Alexis would not have to spend night after night resealing the kneazle pens if he just knew a few simple wards: he could sleep the dark hours away in peace after a simple _Duro_ turned the walls into stone (let's see a kneazle try to get out of _that!_). And Nikitas himself would have found life much more pleasant with the trivial spell of _Lumos_ \- no more glowstones, just a simple light. _Lumos_ had been known in Cappadocia for two hundred years by now… get off your κώλος and go learn something, Seyhans!

A more careful person, of course, might point out that all the magical forms of travel would require enormous and risky investments of time and money. Should one of the Seyhans attempt to locate the nearest wizarding town, far away, based on rumor from Uncle Alexis and an old book? And once there, do they beg in their mangled Greek (and no Arabic or Turkish, so good luck there!) to be given resources and a whole magical education for free?

Yes, it is possible that Nikitas Seyhan and his family might have improved their situation. You might mock them for their failure. But it would have been difficult and dangerous for them to make the attempt, and it is better to light a candle than curse their darkness, you incredibly insensitive ass.

Anyway, the facts are this: Nikitas Seyhan was only vaguely aware of requirements for secrecy, the presence of a larger magical world, and the existence of the Exarchate of Cappadocia. And so it was somewhat bewildering when he was arrested by a team of three wizards and witches (a team that might be called an "auror trio" in Britain) on charges of breaking Clause 73 of the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy.

We will dispense with the Greek and move forward in translation, but the conversation went something like this:

AUROR #1: [Bursts through the door, wand raised. Protective amulets drip from his modern robes] Attention!

NIKITAS: [Strangled surprise]

AUROR #1 [Sternly repeating himself] Attention!

AUROR #2: [Entering behind him] What is it?

AUROR #1: They are not coming to attention.

AUROR #2: Attention!

UNCLE ALEXIS: What?

AUROR #1: You see?

NIKITAS: Who are you? What do you want?

AUROR #1: Finally! Barely makes sense, though. 'You want what it?' Idiots.

AUROR #2: We want you to come to attention.

NIKITAS: What?

UNCLE ALEXIS: What?

AUROR #1: Be quiet, at least, if you won't act properly. Which one of you is in supposed to be in charge of the kneazles? You are in violation of Clause 73 of the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy, as written and empowered by the righteous and good Strategos of the Exarchate.

NIKITAS: What?

UNCLE ALEXIS: What?

AUROR #3: Enough of this. It doesn't matter, let's just get it done. They don't even understand. Stun that one and let's go.

And they took Nikitas Seyhan, and accused him of allowing a kneazle to break loose and run free in Çiftehan, where dozens of Muggles had the chance to observe the bizarre, catlike creature. This particular kneazle was a big red one, knee-high, with long and drooping ears and a brownish streak on its back, and the Seyhans had certainly been aware that it had gotten free. They'd been counting on its long whiskers and significant meat, and had been saddened on its escape (and, they thought, his inevitable snowbound death).

Nikitas never really understood the proceedings. Every aspect of the trial was beyond his comprehension. Frightened and confused, he shut down, rather than risk making things worse for himself (or harming his family further). This was viewed as stubbornness or defiance or stupidity. A man shouted at him from a high seat in a room that was warm and close, and he sat as still as a stone. Nikitas had no wealth or power. He was not related to anyone important, and he had no allies who could cause any trouble. His only protection was a system of justice that had seen no major reforms in a hundred years. Naturally, his fate was sealed.

It was a big red wax seal. It was affixed to Nikitas' death warrant.

The investigation and verdict were all technically true and in keeping with the law, and it would be false comfort to tell oneself that the only thing at work was the corruption of the ignorant. There had been moments of real compassion. One _sakellarios _had even spent a few precious minutes reaching out to the magistrate involved, to ask for leniency. But there were good and solid reasons that ensured Nikitas' verdict.

For one:

Honoured delegates of this Confederation of Wizards, even the Supreme Mugwump can attest to these numbers, as he has verified them himself! The noble Exarchate of Cappadocia has enforced the Statute with extreme zeal, even going so far as to condemn these three prisoners to harsh sentences in the last five years! We take it more seriously than most, and so it is flatly ignorant to suggest that the son of our righteous and good _Strategos _would receive anything but strict scrutiny! Those who would make such accusations in these hallowed halls would be well-advised to look to their own affairs, and abandon such calumnies!

For another:

These look just like the real cards, see? Look at the picture, see the good movement? Fudge is doing the same gesture on his card, the exact same way. I took this myself and made my own copies. Didn't even take that long. We can do this for all of them. I'll wrap them up for you, here hand me that. Heh, look at that donkey in the paper. Face like my ass. Twelve years, they gave him. Did you hear the one about the Arab who got twenty years, and when he got out, all he remembered was his mother-in-law's name? Hahaha! Yeah, mine too. No, give that here, wrap it tight.

So it goes. The road to Hell is paved with reasonable responses to individual incentives.

Nikitas went to Göreme. The Dementors would feed on him. They had to be kept quiet, but hungry. The Cypriots had been making noise lately, and war might be on the horizon.

* * *

It is dark. A man is speaking, hoarsely.

"Όχι... όχι... όχι… όχι… όχι…"

It has been twelve years.

"Σκότωσε με ... σκοτώσεις ... σκοτώσεις ... σκοτώσει εμένα..."

He knows how long it has been. They feed him at intervals, and the knowledge of the passing time is one of the things that stays in his head. He knows that many things did not stay in his head. Monsters are eating him. They are eating him.

He rasps again.

"Όχι... όχι... όχι… όχι… όχι… σκοτώσει εμένα..."

It is dark. Monsters are eating him. He knows there are other things besides the dark and the monsters. There is also coldness, and stone, and metal, and footsteps, and the wooden platters stacked into a short pile that slowly melt into a grey puddle in the corner. Is there ever anything in the platters? He can't remember. They decay in only a few days, and there must be a reason that the people bring them to him and then stack them there, but he can't remember what it is.

"Σκότωσε με ... σκοτώσεις ... σκοτώσεις ... σκοτώσει εμένα..."

He used to say different things, he knows. He can't remember what they were. It doesn't matter. He only has these now. He says them.

"Όχι... όχι... όχι… όχι… όχι…"

It is dark. Monsters are eating him. He speaks when he can. When he has the strength. It is a request. Maybe they will do it. Maybe if he asks.

"Όχι... όχι... όχι… σκοτώσεις... σκοτώσει εμένα..."

_No… no… no… kill me… kill me…_

Twelve years with no changes that he can remember. He knows there might have been changes that he has forgotten, and he knows that he has forgotten so many other things as well. He can't remember what he has lost, though.

It is dark. Monsters are-

What? What? There is a loud noise. It is so loud. It's like the world is shaking in the hands of some great deity. Everything shakes, and the rocks underneath him rear up and shift. One slides out of the wall, and then another. The second one lands on his hand. It is very heavy, and he chokes on his own breath. It hurts.

A little time passes, and then there is more shaking. The stones beneath him jump and he is thrown around. He doesn't move very far, because his hand is still pinned. His hand hurts very much, now, but that doesn't matter. It is just pain. It doesn't matter, because it is still dark, and he can feel that there are monsters near. And they are eating him.

More time passes. He says nothing now. He is waiting to find out what will happen. There is something in him, like waiting for something that is not pain. He can't say what that might be. But he is waiting.

There is a change, now. Something else is different. He is still exhausted and cold and in tremendous pain, but that does not matter because something is different. For so long, for so many years, there was a presence in his chest and head. It was a strong but gentle hand, holding him close, cradling him into an intimate embrace and lavishing him with long, tender, toothy kisses that scraped his soul. Splinters came away from his raggedness. They were prised free and consumed and savored. He had lost bits of himself.

That touch is gone.

It is hard to understand, since there is nothing to which he can compare it. There had been the touch of bony hatred, as there always had been, and then it was gone. It is still gone. And he knows that. He knows that it is gone and he is not being eaten. He isn't forgetting.

He was being eaten, and now he is not. Existence has been upended: the unstoppable flow of life, which moved from one pain into a worse pain, has reversed itself. He cannot feel surprise. There is not enough left of him to feel surprise. He is stripped and broken, the marrow licked clean from his soul. Whatever is left cannot quite grasp this event. A law of life has upended. He is not being eaten.

Time passes. He does not reckon it. He is waiting. Could he move, if he wished it? It does not matter, since he does not wish it. He lies there, hand crushed, and waits. Such a curious thing, to know and remember that a good thing has happened to him. He has a bruised and shallow mind, and cannot hold much more than this marvel. A good thing has happened. He is not being eaten.

He hears voices. The door to his cell opens, and with it comes light. It is warm and yellow, and he feels it on his skin. A woman has the light. It is coming from her wand. He sees the woman. She is beautiful. He has nothing to which he can compare her, but she is beautiful. She has a tight smile on her face, and she has brown hair that falls in curls to her shoulders. She says something, though it is nonsense to him, and her voice is music.

More people are behind her, speaking more nonsense. He does not move very much. He watches the woman. The others are also beautiful, but they are not like her. She moves to him, and he feels her push open his jaw and place something soft in his mouth. It is sweet - he knows it, though he cannot remember it. He stares at her. She touches his cheek, frowning, and then gently strokes his throat. He swallows. Sweetness.

At some point, the others had moved the stone off of his hand, and had done things to him. The pain is gone from it, although it had never mattered very much. It had only been pain. He is not being eaten, and what else could matter but that?

Then there is a sound of metal - _Ker-chak!_ \- and sudden darkness.

* * *

Pip had been an auror for only a year, so he knew very much how lucky he was to be assigned to the Tower. His mother had wept with pride when he'd told her… not even cried a little, but out-and-out bawled. He hadn't even known what to do, so he just stood next to her and patted her on the back, and said, "Now Mum… now Mum…"

She had turned and clung to him and wailed out something about being so proud of him, and how he would be working with the most important man in the world, and how his father would have been so proud had he not been killed for trying to protect his students, and how Pip was turning out just like him and it was wonderful. Finally she had just clutched him close and said, "Dear Phillip, dear dear dear Phillip, I am so… oh, dear Phillip!"

He knew that she had never been happy these last six months. She was scared for him. He'd been on the three-week Nurmengard rotation. Now he'd be in the guarded clinic compound that was almost literally the safest place on the entire planet, located in an impregnable school and staffed with the best healers history had ever known. The whole situation was basically a mother's dream. She might _actually_ have dreamed this, come to think of it.

Not that he hadn't earned it, mind you. He had worked himself like a shaggy bobbin to get his NEWTs, pulling _four_ Os and an E (stupid Herbology). Pip hadn't rested on his laurels - two tries to get into the training program! - but had done a proper Hufflepuff and slaved away until he thought his wand-waving fingers would fall off.

Hard work had paid off. All those hours twiddling away with Transfiguration had gotten him noticed, pulled off assignment and put in the Tower. Younger than anyone else, as far as he knew, and wasn't that quite the thing! Every auror here had to be particularly expert at Transfiguration, and he'd been one of Professor McGonagall's star students thanks to many late nights and strained nerves, but this did her proud. He'd owled her his gratitude (it was proper strange he couldn't just pop down to the rest of Hogwarts to tell her in person, but rules was rules).

He'd make the most of it, now that he was here. He'd put in the hours again, and eventually he'd get noticed by Mr. Diggory or Mad-Eye or even Madame Bones.

Pip stood sharply next to the Tower entrance, doing his best to look both intimidating and invisible. His companion on this shift, J.C., was managing both effortlessly. He could learn a lot from her, really. How in Merlin's name did she achieve that look of fierce attention and profound boredom? It seemed like a contradiction in terms.

A steady flow of healers and their levitating subjects flowed in and out of the Tower's wide entrance, an ornate doorway worked through with gold. Fairly quiet day, so far.

"Hello?" A man and woman stepped hesitantly through the entrance, peering about curiously. Pip's wand was already in his hand, but a look through the passage behind them showed that the aurors on guard were holding up today's handsign. All was well. Pip glanced at J.C., and she just jerked her head at the visitors.

"Hello, sir, ma'am." Pip said, brightly. "I hope that your trip was pleasant, and that the security precautions didn't overly inconvenience you."

The woman gave him a chilly glare (odd bird… skinny and pale), but the man smiled good-naturedly and said, "Oh, it was a bit inconvenient, but I suppose it's all understandable, isn't it?" He was a short and lumpy-looking fellow, with thick black hair that sat in random licks along his oily scalp. Nice enough, though.

"Yes, sir. That's why we aurors are about. The Ministry has assigned us to keep an eye on the Tower and make sure that the important work here is not interrupted. Not a wisp of air gets in without our say-so, sir." Pip was justifiably proud… and it couldn't hurt to emphasize the security. Reputation could be the most useful shield of all, as Madame Bones frequently said.

"I'm sure, I'm sure," the man said, looking around. He didn't sound convinced. They'd just gone through the main entrance of the Tower, from the Receiving Room in the upper bounds of Hogwarts. Perhaps he hadn't seen enough to be impressed, or maybe he was just a gorky little fellow who didn't know enough to be properly awed.

Travel to the Tower was an exceedingly simple matter for the large population that it served these days: touch any Safety Pole or break any Safety Stick, and you went right to the Receiving Room. It was a safe and smooth trip, since the devices were crafted by the most skilled enchanters available on the planet, but it also left you unconscious. If you were conscious on your arrival, which sometimes happened through the usual magical quirks (werewolves and anyone with giantish blood were, for whatever reason, immune to the _Stupefy_ laid on the devices) then a friendly team of aurors would assist you with that difficulty. Bottled swarms of chizpurfles and a few dozen Dark Detectors aided the defense team.

Thus far, though, none of the more esoteric precautions had ever seen any use, and they were not widely known. A few werewolves and one half-giant had needed manual stunning and Obliviation, but really it was only Mad-Eye Moody himself who had really tested the matter. He made a habit of trying to break into the Tower and assassinate Mr. Potter. He made an attempt on every odd-numbered day. Security was very high on odd-numbered days, and _extremely_ high on even-numbered days ("This'll be the one!").

This gentleman, then, had really just touched a portkey, been Stunned into unconsciousness, and then woken up after a friendly and professional auror had scanned and tested him two or three dozen times. He just didn't know enough to be impressed. The only really visible security would have been the Thieves' Downfall in the passage from the Receiving Room.

"You have a meeting, sir?" There were often meetings, and often with the most important of people. It was rare for visitors to be complete strangers. Many Ministry officials came for advice and assistance, though the Tower wasn't actually an official part of the government, and the healers and "scientists" were all well-known (though frequently checked).

The man smiled again. "Ah, yes. I am Councilor Reginald Black-Horse Hig. This is Councilor Limpel Tineagar. We are here on business for the Council of Westphalia."

Pip looked over at J.C. She had a mirror in front of her, and she was reviewing its display. After a few minutes, she looked up at Pip and nodded. He turned back to the visitors, and said, "Right this way, sir."

As the three moved down the quadrangular halls, Pip gave the most cursory of tours, out of courtesy. His mother had raised him properly, and she had always said, "Be nice to everyone, since you don't know who can help you later." And of course, it could only help the Tower himself when it came to meeting with these two. If they were allowed to be here, then it could only be assumed that it was permissible to see a bit around. Might as well show off the amazing work being done. Nowhere else in the world was there so much magical might and ingenuity, except _maybe_ the Ministry of Magic.

"Mr. Potter's meeting room is just down here, sir. A lot of interesting work being done on the way, though." Passing a wide side passage, Pip gestured at it. "That's the Conjuration Conjunction… they're working on pushing the limits of Gamp's Law, figuring out the exact point at which something can't be conjured." Pip understood the basic idea, although he'd also overheard complete gibberish like "isolating variables" and "conceptual limitation." But whatever their silly jargon, it would be _ruddy_ useful to be able to conjure up a glass of firewhiskey whenever you wanted!

"And here's the Extension Establishment. They're doing amazing things with boxes that are bigger on the inside." Although, for whatever reason, their main activity seemed to be making thinner and taller extended spaces. A cute bloke who worked there sometimes stopped to chat with Pip, and apparently had been very excited that they'd refined the Undetectable Extension Charm to create a small box which had internal dimensions that were too narrow to even fit your hand but as tall as a building. Might be useful to hold a lot of parchment, Pip supposed.

The last department they passed on their way to the meeting room had an open door. Pip and the two Americans could see inside briefly as they walked by, and Mr. Hig jerked to a stop. Inside, two goblins were dipping golden gauntlets into vats of bubbling black liquid, holding their faces back to keep their long noses away from the rising fumes. There was a stench of sulfur, but it didn't seem to bother the diminutive, well-dressed goblins.

Mr. Hig spoke, saying with surprise, "There _are_ goblins here."

"Yes, sir," Pip said. "There are twenty or twenty-two who work in Material Methods. But if you'll come right this way…?" The two Americans followed him, Mr. Hig frowning fiercely. Did he not like goblins? Not that Pip really blamed him. All sorts of goblins and centaurs and veela and hags and house-elves had sent emissaries or representatives or the like. Merfolk had even visited, in big glass tanks of water. It made Pip uneasy, perhaps because he'd always been afraid he wouldn't be able to hack it as an auror, and that he'd end up working in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures (not that he had anything against them… times had changed, and everyone deserved respect, he reminded himself).

As they arrived at the meeting room, Pip showed them in. Mr. Potter was already in the room, and he approached them. His hair was back in a ponytail, and his robes were formal but unmarked. Mr. Potter's closet doubtless had much more impressive regalia - Wizengamot robes, the robes of a Hogwarts professor, whatever a "scientist" wore - but he generally wore either these plain robes or his Muggle clothing. Mr. Potter gestured at Pip when he was leaving, indicating he should stay. Pip stood along the wall, opposite from the other auror on guard (his name was Hede) and inwardly glowed. He was getting noticed!

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Councilor Hig." Mr. Potter said. The two men shook hands. "And you, Councilor Tineagar." He shook hands with her as well. They walked together to the meeting room table, and Mr. Potter sat in his usual spot, in front of a few folders and parchments.

"Yes… so, here we are again." Mr. Hig said, settling into his chair.

Mr. Potter looked surprised at the greeting. To Pip, who had spent a great deal time around Mr. Potter these past few weeks and who was now quite proud of how well he knew the Tower, the expression looked slightly too pronounced. Mr. Potter was wearing his emotions openly, even exaggerating them a bit. "I am not sure that anyone has been in quite this situation, actually, Councilor. We agree on almost everything, and yet we seem to find ourselves in opposition on some small matters. It's why I was so eager to meet with you."

Mr. Hig leaned back in his chair, speaking pleasantly but breezily. "I think you might overestimate how much we have in common, if I can be frank, Mr. Potter."

Mr. Potter smiled. It didn't touch his eyes. "Councilor, you have spent years working for the protection of Muggles, goblins, and every other sentient creature. That has not gone unnoticed, and you have made many powerful enemies, both here and in the States. You wouldn't have worked so hard and sacrificed so much unless you clearly believed in the cause. You must know, at this point, that I do, too. Can we not count that as a point in common?"

"We both do say the same things on that score," Mr. Hig agreed. "In fact, I went to visit several of my allies in Britain earlier today, and I found one of them many years younger, and all of them speaking so highly of you that one might have thought you were Merlin reborn."

"I hope I haven't stepped on your toes. But our research here, and the programs we offer in tandem with the Treaty, give us quite a bit of persuasive power. What matters is not who gets it done, but that it gets done, correct?"

Mr. Hig shrugged carelessly. "Yes. But to get down to brass tacks, I have noticed that some of the things you've been getting done have been a bit unusual."

"Unusual?" Mr. Potter asked, raising his eyebrows.

"'The Center for Applied Thinking.' 'The Hinton Foundation.' 'The Southern Wetland Preservation Society.' 'Habitat for Humanity.' 'The Trevor Project.' 'The Union of Concerned Scientists.'" Mr. Hig said, then waited. The silence stretched long. Mr. Potter's expression didn't change. He folded his hands quietly in front of himself and said nothing. Finally, Mr. Hig added, "I'll say it, then. These are just a few of the organizations in which you've recently bought a leather-lunged voice."

"And if I had? How would you possibly object to charity?" Mr. Potter asked. His voice was even, but there was a hint of wry amusement.

"These donations come from a single hidden hand, but I know that it is indeed you. Your face is all the confirmation I need. You are buying influence among the Muggles. You are buying people." Mr. Hig was speaking with sharper words now. Pip listened and watched, fascinated. This was going to be just like one of the stories!

Mr. Potter shook his head. "Then perhaps you have a point of difference here, indeed, since I happen to believe that charitable giving is a worthy pursuit, if you have the means."

Mr. Hig smiled now, rough black stubble surrounding the expression on his unshaven mouth. "What a remarkably noncommittal statement. Maybe we should turn then to your moves in the trade of magical items?" This next suggestion - accusation? - came with a renewed sharpness to his tone.

Mr. Potter smiled, now. It was open and friendly, and his body language shifted to accompany it as he spread his hands before him. "Maybe we can return to that, later? I'd prefer we speak of our political goals, where we might find fewer disagreements. Some people who study these matters have found that it is easier to be pleasant and reach an accord once two parties have addressed matters of common ground. If we begin with these small matters where we disagree, then we-"

"They are not small," Mr. Hig said, cutting Mr. Potter off.

Pip was astonished that he'd ever thought this nasty little man was pleasant.

"This is your government, and everyone knows that. If you do not actually run it, you own it in all but name. Every major political opponent you have ever face in Britain is now dead or in hiding," Mr. Hig said. "And that government has not just doubled inspections of magical trade, it's increased them _tenfold! _The pace of international trade between the Americas and Britain has crawled to a halt! Many powerful wizards and witches in the Council have their money in such ventures, and you are aiming to gradually strangle them into penury. We are known for our magical devices, just as Egypt is known for its alchemy and Britain is known for its culture of wandwork. In other words, you're trying to diminish our greatest strength, while your own thrives. It is a crude and ineffective move, but that doesn't make it any less intrusive. You're expanding and want to clear the way, and I have caught you clear at it. The question is only: what do you want? Do you wish to dominate us, or do you intend to own the Americas right out?"

Mr. Potter's smile grew wider. "Ah. Well, if we must." He opened the folder on the table before him. "It does occur to me that I heard that some businesses have been having trouble in the Americas, lately. Let me name some companies, just so I know we're speaking of the same ones? 'Queevel's Quills?' 'Musical Merchandising Unlimited?' 'Erato Publishing?'" With each name, he turned a sheet of parchment. Mr. Hig's expression had become a bit fixed.

"These companies," Mr. Potter continued, "all have something in common. They're all yours, and they're all being held up with inspections, lately. You presented a general problem, but really this complaint was tailored to your own needs, not that of your nation."

"Not one fleck of gold has-" Mr. Hig started, in indignant response.

Mr. Potter continued as if he hadn't heard. "Not that you own them, or anything so crude. But it has been observed by some friends of mine that they take your orders. I don't know if it's a favor-based economy, or what."

Mr. Hig snorted in derision. "Is that all? I assure you, that while business may look simple to someone who does nothing but meddle in politics and bizarre researches all day, there's such a thing as working in concert for the benefit of all."

"Councilor," said Mr. Potter, "the only things working in concert are the Quotes Quills produced by Mr. Queevel at your direction. Each one has a hidden Protean Charm on it. I can only assume that the other ends of those Charms are linked to quills under your management. Every British wizard or witch - anyone in the world, in fact - who buys one of these quills is producing a secret, remote copy of every letter, every receipt, and every love note they compose."

"Nonsense," Mr. Hig replied, his lips pressed tight.

"Musical Merchandising Unlimited, on the other hand, makes generally dreadful novelties for different musical acts. I have seen one such novelty… a plate with the promotional image of the group 'The Weird Sisters.' It's a cute device… you sing the first half of a lyric, and the plate sings back the second half of the line, with music. Rather annoying unless you're a teenaged witch, of course, but even more annoying is the fact that the Open Ears Charm that's necessary for the plate to function never seems to turn off. Oddly, it seems as though the plate is always listening, and broadcasting the conversations it hears to someone else's ears. Hard to detect. Useful, though, if you're the sort of person who values information."

Mr. Hig said nothing, now. Ms. Tineagar was trying hard not to react. Her jaw was taut with anger.

"Erato Publishing makes books. Mostly short ones about famous wizards from around the world. There's one about Gilderoy Lockhart, for example. I think I have it somewhere in the office. Well-written, especially the action sequences. When Lockhart fought the vampires, my heart was in my throat." Mr. Potter's dry tone of voice made that seem unlikely to Pip. "There's even an extensive little quiz in the back. You fill it in, and it uses numerology on your name and the personality questions to tell you just how much you're like Lockhart. Are you 90% similar to the vampire vanquisher? Or just 15%? Curiously, though, the enchantment seems to be recording all of the answers and names somewhere, although it's devilishly hard to trace exactly where."

Mr. Potter closed the folder in front of him, and continued, his voice turning cold. "Mr. Hig, when you entered, you said we'd met before. That's clearly not true. If we'd ever met, you never would have kept trying this sort of thing once you knew I was in charge." He tapped the folder with his index finger.

There was another long silence. At length, Mr. Hig's face, which had stiffened and become slightly red to match his plum-like nose, relaxed. He glanced over at Ms. Tineagar, then back at Mr. Potter. Finally, he spoke.

"Oh, I know you. I know you to your core," Mr. Hig said, leaning forward, his dark eyes glittering. "For I have listened.

"I have heard of a baby whose parents were murdered, and who was famous from infancy for having defeated one of the greatest Dark Lords of history. How did he do it? Why, his mother's love protected him. How curious that the mothers of Timothy Ghent, Salubria Sintheread, and Geoffrey Bones did not love their children. Lord Voldemort had no trouble with them, or their babies. What unloving and unnatural mothers.

"I have heard of a child who acted and spoke as an adult, and who knew eldritch magics that were not only beyond his age, but beyond any other wizard in known history. This child's words and confrontations are chronicled in significant detail, often verbatim, by newspapers and books. This child even led armies in play-acting fights with the tactical skill and clever Muggle tricks that might be expected from someone who had lived much longer than he. This child even _frightened Dementors_. I might think these incidents and events exaggerated, had I not examined many of the events myself with the aid of significant monies and a Pensieve.

"I have heard of the tragic death of one of this boy's early rivals, a young girl who had dared defeat him in those play-acting battles and who had dared excel beyond him in scholarly pursuits. She had tragically died a most terrible death, you see, a victim of that same Dark Lord whom he had defeated as an infant, and who had apparently returned.

"I have heard that this boy was also present during a confused and unwitnessed later incident in Azkaban, when the most abhorrent and evil of that Dark Lord's servants was taken from that prison - again, with no witnesses ever actually seeing that Dark Lord, who escaped while aided by a Muggle device of considerable scientific advancement. The Dark Lord was not known to have ever used such devices before that time, interestingly, nor known to have had any power over Dementors. And Bellatrix Black… why, she has vanished as completely as if she were dead in a ditch.

"I have heard that this young man was present at some amazing confrontation on a dark night, resulting in the mass murder of some of the most powerful witches and wizards in Britain as well as a Hogwarts professor and leaving behind gruesome severed hands, said to be those of that Dark Lord, and many unidentifiable ashes. So many obstacles vanished for the young man that night, including Lucius Malfoy… and Albus Dumbledore, one of the greatest heroes of this or any age. And his rival reappeared, returned from the dead and now become one of his stoutest allies.

"I have heard that the young man's rival has the ability to command and destroy Dementors, those darkest of creatures and powerful weapons under the control of others. And that she went to Azkaban at his bidding after the Ministry of Magic balked at his orders to shut down the prison and release the criminals. His rival defeated every auror, destroyed every Dementor, freed every criminal remaining, and razed that prison to sand and ashes. And now she and her army of fanatics act as a law unto themselves, and none can stand against them.

"I have heard the rumors that this young man has, in the years since, shown the power to heal injuries beyond the capabilities of St. Mungo's or the Russell Center. Lycanthropy, vampirism, missing limbs, and the darkest of curses. What is more, the young man and his healers have the power to grant new youth, a skill beyond that of any other. It is an amazing new method of Transfiguration, I hear, and one of his most prominent healers took an Unbreakable Vow in public to attest that it could not be copied beyond the walls of the Tower. This has not prevented some hushed-up tragedies around the world, as others attempt to emulate the young man nonetheless… all unsuccessfully.

"I have heard that this young man is the secret ruler of Britain, controlling through proxies the proceedings of the Wizengamot, the lesser courts of inquiry, and every action of the Ministry of Magic. The streets are filled with those who are newly young or newly healed, and all of them changed in body and spirit - remade into new people - and all of them eager to assist this young man in any way they can. This young man has changed his country, and is now working to extend his reach in countries around the world.

"I have heard that no fewer than eighteen individuals have died within the Tower. They were _not_ severely injured, _not_ mortally wounded, _not_ on the brink of death. I have read testimony and seen with my own eyes the memories that show _at least_ eighteen people _dying_ here and passing beyond the Veil. And yet those people were returned from death and restored to life, and they walk the world, youthful once again and completely healthy. Remade. Something only whispered about in the darkest of rituals. And my goodness, do they speak highly of the Tower and his kindness. They'd do anything for him."

"I have heard so much more. So very much more. And it puzzles me that _so_ many seem _so_ deaf."

Throughout it all, Mr. Potter sat silent and stone-faced, listening carefully. Word piled upon word, and accusation upon accusation. Pip could barely believe what he was hearing at this point, Merlin knows… it was outright insanity. Every little fact and weird thing was being spun around on its rear. This American was playing it all up so that it seemed like Mr. Potter was evil, rather than the greatest hero since… well, since Merlin! Pip felt like he was going mad. He knew better than to twitch a muscle. This was craziness and rudeness, but not violence. The other one - Ms. Tineagar - seemed almost as shocked as Pip, gaping at her companion.

Pip felt sick to his stomach, as though someone had grabbed his guts and wrenched them with a nasty tug. The most honoured man in Britain - probably the world!- and this hairy slug was saying he was Dark? He wanted to grab the idiot and shake him and tell him, _Listen, you bloody fool, this fellow here has saved more lives than anyone else in history!_

The worst of it was that it made sense, for a second, when he heard it. For just a moment, he'd believed the American, because when all the facts were _twisted_ like that, it fit. It was like a line drawing he'd once seen. At first, it had looked like a snake, sinuous body twisting and mouth gaping. But other people saw a phoenix, swirling in fire with feathers spread. And the funny thing was that if you looked at the drawing the right way and _thought_ about it the right way, you could make yourself see the phoenix.

But it was crazy. Pip was an auror, trained and trialed - though new - and he knew a great deal about Dark Lords. They ruled with pain and terror, and they couldn't help but look the part. Dark rituals corrupted your soul even as they gave you power. It was one of the fundamental laws of magic: as above, so below.

Trolls and Dementors and flesh-eating slugs were all vicious creatures, and they took pleasure in causing pain as they acted out their natural urges. And sure enough, they were ugly and foul to the eye; the thick mucus of a flesh-eating slug was a pallid yellow that stank like spoiled meat, and you knew in an instant that it was dangerous. Other beings, like giants, were crude and angry but not obviously malicious, and so they were unpleasant and fearsome but not as hideous in appearance.

Pip wasn't stupid, of course. There were a lot of perfectly nice people who smelled or who were ugly. But you simply couldn't get away with Dark Magic without it affecting your looks or your aura. You-Know-Who was proof enough of that: pale and noseless and gaunt, as Pip had heard. Harry Potter, on the other hand, was a normal-looking bloke in dark robes, his hair tied back to expose the famous scar. He had glasses, and green eyes. And he was the Tower: Pip had personally seen him heal dozens of people, and not a single person whose life was saved by anyone in the facility left without a smile and a kind word from Mr. Potter.

"And so," Mr. Hig said, settling back in his chair once more, "you can see that I have been listening, and that I know you very well indeed. You have overplayed your hand - you have been too provincial. If one is caught up in all the drama of it, it might slip by. But over the sea, we have enough perspective to see the full picture. And every single bit of evidence, every jot and tittle, points to one conclusion. And now that I can look into your eyes, I can see it confirmed. I can see the coldness that I saw once before, one foggy night in Nottingham. It is the coldness of an evil soul.

"You are subtle, but not subtle enough, and now you are undone. I have taken precautions before coming, and soon the whole world will stand against you. For I know you well.

"Lord Voldemort, you are discovered."


	5. A Matter of Perspective

_Councilor Hig is a brave man, but not a stupid one, _Harry thought to himself. _He is convinced that I am Lord Voldemort and that I took control of the infant Harry Potter on October 31__st__, 1981, and it is a more than plausible theory. That was essentially Voldemort's plan, once upon a time, when he had intended to rise to power as David Munroe. From the outside, Hig's insights are not only a possible interpretation of events, but actually the most _likely _interpretation._

_The truth was that Voldemort had performanced a ritual of his own invention on a child, and in the process destroyed his own body and copied much of his mind into the child's brain. To an external observer, this explanation of events requires too many new assumptions to work. Councilor Hig is simply applying Occam's Razor, and in the process revealing one of its disadvantages as a heuristic._

The accusation was hanging heavy in the air while Harry thought. He didn't feel rushed. This wasn't the first unjust _j'accuse _he had faced (and it wouldn't be the last) and he knew it would actually be suspicious if he had a ready answer. He had budgeted a half hour for this meeting - no need to hurry, yet. He let himself look astonished, which was easy enough. It was, after all, very surprising that anyone would stroll into the stronghold of a villain's lair and say such a thing.

Reg Hig glared at Harry. His companion, Limpel Tineagar, had overcome her initial shock, and was sitting very still and very stiffly, as though she were surrounded by fragile things.

_What advantage does he think to gain by calling me out?, _Harry thought. _We're in private here, so he's tipping his hand without getting any benefit of publicity. I could have him killed without anyone even knowing what had happened, if I were Voldemort. And if he's clever enough to deduce the most probable version of events and to see a pattern in the charitable contributions, then he's clever enough to really have the insurance he claims. On the other hand, he didn't reach the _correct _conclusions about my origins or about the purpose behind the charities, so he has his limits. What is his insurance? Well, what are his strengths and patterns? He specializes in magical information technology, and has built his power base on that advantage…_

_Is he working with the Malfoys? No. Among other reasons, he probably hates them, given the contrasting beliefs on blood purity, "lesser creatures" like centaurs, and so on. A letter, left with someone? "If you are reading this, I am already dead…" No. He has too high an estimate of my cleverness, given that fantastic speech he just gave, and he knows how easy it would be for a villain to circumvent that._

_Ah. I bet he is trying to record or broadcast this conversation. Thus the speech and the goading and the confrontation… he wants a confession from my own lips. What Dark Lord could ever resist gloating about his plans in private, after all? A lot of unknowns and moving pieces here, though… call it 6 to 4, 60% confidence. And if true, that means I must also increase my estimate of this man's bravery, since it implies he is willing to sacrifice himself (suicide bomber? not a violent man, assign it a small probability). Did his recording device make it through the Receiving Room? Harry estimated that only one in twenty magical devices of one sort or another made it through undetected, based on their prior results. Conditional odds would be 5 to 100, then. Hm, multiplying my prior with this I get 30:400, which means that taking the search into account, the probability of him _successfully _recording this conversation is 30/430_… _something like seven percent, I think. Call it ten for pessimism. Not negligible, but not enough for immediate action to stop it._

_So… we have the situation. Now: what do I have, what do I want, and how can I best use the latter to get the former?_

"Councilors, do you mind if I show you a memory from my childhood?" Harry said, rising from his seat.

"What?" Councilor Tineagar said, startled. It was, he thought, the first time she'd spoken in the meeting.

Hig said nothing, watching Harry closely. Neither he nor Tineagar rose from their seats. Damn. This was so delicate, and so much could hinge on these moments. They couldn't afford to alienate the Americas. Hig was so suspicious, and what was worse, he was _right _to be suspicious.

Harry put himself in Hig's place, thinking, _What would I do, if I were him - motivated by pride and his specific moral considerations, not constrained by fear - if I were trying to broadcast this conversation and Voldemort wanted to change the subject before I'd gotten a confession? Hmm... He must think that this is how Voldemort is going to kill him. 'Here, lean over this large cauldron and let me show you something… your death, fool!' He won't move unless he has no further choice, since he wants better proof than simply his assassination. He's trying to force a confrontation._

As so often, they faced a Prisoner's Dilemma. How could they arrange to cooperate?

The thought process took only a second. It was impossible to simply promise someone they were safe, since it could be interpreted as apophasis (if you're saying they're safe, it implies you've contemplated otherwise). He had to pre-commit to warding them, and do it in such a way that he gave Hig a weapon to use against him in case he defected. If he made it far more costly to defect, in an obvious way, then they could be more sure he wouldn't take that option.

"Auror Pirrip, Auror Kwannon," Harry said, turning to the two aurors in the room. "I wish to show these two delegates a memory in my Pensieve. I would like you to accompany us, and keep them safe, particularly. They are exceedingly important people, visitors from the Council of Westphalia, and absolutely no harm must come to them. There have been times when assassins have used the cover of an accident to disguise murder. So we shall treat any accidents that happen to these delegates, who have come here only to assist their people and all the peoples of the world, as deliberate and unforgivable attempts on their life."

Technically, he wasn't supposed to give them orders. He was a private citizen. No one ever paid that illusion any mind, though. The point wasn't the order, anyway… the point was the careful and explicit elimination of the idea of a justifiable "accident."

The experienced Auror Kwannon gave the briefest of nods, trying to disguise her mild contempt for the instruction. She'd been an auror for more than a decade, and she was one of the ones Moody had judged as suitable come on board as a Tower guard when they first began (he didn't "trust" her, _per se_, but then Moody trusted no living wizard). Kwannon didn't need to be told to be suspicious of all accidents, since that was her default mode. Harry had seen her work, and it was intimidating.

Auror Pirrip's face became serious, and he gave a firm nod with was probably meant to be a grim set to his jaw. This one was practically fresh out of training, with the credulousness of any new law-enforcement officer, and Harry would probably have gotten the same response if he'd demanded that Pirrip guard a cucumber sandwich with his life. Still, you needed new eyes willing to ask the stupid or obvious question, and Pirrip wasn't afraid of looking silly. He was also trustworthy, brave, and a whiz at Transfiguration. Funny, Harry and Pirrip were about the same age, yet such different people.

Harry looked back at Hig and Tineagar. Tineagar was looking to Hig; the decision was his. And Hig was still hesitant. Curiosity was having its effect, of course - the man thrived on information - but he'd had a plan in mind when he came in to confront Harry, and he was loathe to abandon it. Yes, he might be somewhat convinced that he wasn't in any danger, but that didn't yet make him ready to step aside from his preconceived plans. He needed… something more.

Harry paused.

_What would Dumbledore do?_

"_You wound me, Harry. Do you not at least realise that what I have told you is a sign of trust?"_

_Dumbledore would stop trying to pull levers. He'd lay his heart out, raw and vulnerable. This is a brave man, and a good man. Treat him like one._

Harry looked Hig in the eyes, and spoke quietly and directly. "Councilor Hig, you are mistaken about me. You are wholly mistaken about me. I wish to show you some proof. You will come to no harm. Please, sir. Come with me."

Slowly, Hig rose from his seat, followed by Tineagar. "Very well, Mr. Potter." The American's beetle brow was furrowed, and his face was wary… but he had agreed.

Harry led the way from the room. He chose a route that would lead them past a couple of chosen research centers in the sprawling (and ever-growing) Tower complex.

They walked past the Survey Station, first, as they headed down the featureless and evenly-lit grey stone corridors. The Survey Station was an outgrowth of another research project, which was an attempt to develop a simple battery of spells to reveal a variety of health problems that were not addressed by modern magical medicine (detecting the alleles that could give someone's offspring Tay–Sachs disease, for example). It had become apparent along the way that detection magic itself was woefully inadequate, and was (like most magics) a huge kludge. Harry had tasked the trio of wizards working in the Survey Station on improving at least one aspect of that shortcoming, by developing or refining or researching spells to detect discrete elements. He'd set them the goal of being able to detect a single mole of any element. Three weeks later, one of them had finally come to him to ask, "A single mole _in what volume of space_?" and Harry had put that person in charge.

It looked very studious and very benign, as they whisked by the entrance. Just three people taking turns scrawling on slates and pointing their wands at a big glass tank.

They also passed by the Advancement Agency, the first research station he'd set up. They had a single mandate, but the scope of it meant that they had the largest staff of anywhere in the Tower aside from the clinic. Harry had told them about the special wards and magics laid over the Tower, and about the "new techniques" in Transfiguration that allowed for safe free Transfiguration of people, and he had given them a direction made possible by these advances: "Improve _homo sapiens_." Twenty-eight wizards and Muggles worked in the Advancement Agency, and the experimenting alcoves were quite a sight to see. But the main room of the station was, again, just another gaggle of people speaking in hushed tones and consulting weighty books.

This walk through the compound, along with the walk to the meeting room, sent important messages to the visitors.

_Look at all these normal-looking people doing harmless things!_ There were no walls dripping with blood or chairs upholstered in mermaid skin. While useless as an articulated argument, the normality of what they saw would soothe their suspicions further.

_Look at all these witnesses!_ Everyone feels safer in a crowd.

_Look at all these vulnerabilities! _All of the witches and wizards they saw could be corrupted, blackmailed, persuaded, spied upon, and otherwise used as a tool by any future attacks from the Westphalian Council. Harry knew this, Hig knew it, and Hig knew that Harry knew that Hig knew it. This would be doubly effective if Harry's hypothesis was correct, and many of their faces were being recorded or broadcasted right now.

Publicly, there were twenty-five research centers in the Tower. This was the most that Harry felt he could manage. By the time they gained enough autonomy so that they no longer required so much of his personal direction, his available time would be even further reduced. Or at least, that was the plan, as they brought more and more of the magical world into the Treaty. These days, his time was very tightly-scheduled and filled with emergencies, but he still had seven or eight hours out of every thirty to devote to his own pursuits. This was probably the sweet spot, and someday he'd look back on such luxury with fondness: enough power and resources to begin to make meaningful global change, but enough time to enjoy himself in his off-hours.

There was also a twenty-sixth research center, named X. Only Harry ever went there. It was hidden, accessible only by complex wards and riddles, and was filled with intricate golden devices. None of them did anything except function as ever-more-elaborate alarms, though… the twenty-sixth room was just where Harry went to read. This precaution had only ever ensnared one spy, but it was worth it just so that Harry could have at least one peaceful sanctuary.

No, the real secret wasn't X. The real secret was Room 101. And besides him, only Hermione and Amelia knew of the entrance to Room 101. In fact, so far as he had any reason to suspect, only the three of them - and perhaps Moody, you always had to count him - even knew about the existence of Room 101, and its small black box. Security through obscurity.

They'd arrived at the Records Room. It was one of the places where Harry's sensibilities had not won out, and it had been built in the fashion of wizarding libraries. The relatively small stone room had a low-hanging ceiling, almost every meter of which was covered with half-sized ebony doors. Except for one corner of the room, all of the walls and the floor were also covered in the doors. They had arcane, miniscule labels on them, written in crabbed handwriting. Should a researcher open one on the ceiling or floor, a charm swept them into a separate room with wide-stretching shelves, well-lit by glowglobes and supplemented by comfortable armchairs. The goblins needed stepladders to get to the ceiling doors.

Harry had shouted at them when they'd "found" it all built the way they wanted. "There are doors everywhere!" he'd shouted. "Why not just make it a bigger room, and put all the doors on the walls?! What about when people fall through one of the doors on the floor? And why bother making specially charmed doors that suck you in on the ceiling - you could spend less time and effort just making doors _that you can walk through!_ _And haven't you ever heard of a card catalogue_?!"

As it happened, they had not heard of a card catalogue, and they did not understand his insane Muggle building sensibilities, and this was the proper design for the personal library of a Grand Sorcerer, and that was that.

Regardless, it gave neither Hig nor Tineagar any pause when they saw it, and they followed Harry without hesitation to the un-doored corner, where a Pensieve stood on its stone pedestal. The aurors trailed the trio.

Harry turned to the two Americans, and sighed. "It is difficult to prove that I am not Voldemort, particularly if you think all of my current efforts to save lives are an elaborate front. Anything I show you now could just be some sort of elaborate ploy, chosen specifically to fool you. But I do think there is one sort of memory I could show you that will convince you that I am not Lord Voldemort.

"Councilors, I believe that sentient life is the highest good, and preserving and perpetuating that life is my dearest goal. Voldemort held all life in disdain, from what I have heard… almost all people bored him, and formed no part of his utility function - that is to say, he assigned them no value. I think that the Muggle scientific method is the noblest and surest path forward for us all, while Voldemort was famously scornful of Muggles." He thought for a moment, and added a third difference. "And, Councilors, I love some people dearly. As far as I know, Voldemort had no love in him."

Harry held his wand to his brow. He found the memory he wanted, wincing a little as he recalled it. Then he pulled it free, using the wordless twisting motion needed to cast the unnamed Pensieve spell. Harry felt the memory slip away from him like the last tenuous moments of a fading dream, and saw the silvery liquid hanging heavily from the tip of his wand. He sighed, and placed it gently into the waters of the Pensieve. It swirled about, and a light mist began to rise from the wide metal bowl, showing that a memory was present in the device.

"There is another very large difference between myself and Voldemort, though, Councilors. He was mortally concerned about his dignity, and I have always been dignity-impaired. Voldemort would not tolerate appearing ridiculous. And so I will show you this, Councilor Hig, even though it may cost me a great deal of your respect. This is a memory from when I was younger. I believe it will prove to you _absolutely_ that I am not Voldemort or any kind of dignified Dark Lord."

He stepped back, and turned away, his face already blushing. Hig looked at Tineagar for a moment, a look full of meaning. Harry assumed that there was some kind of communication going on between them, something along the lines of, "If this melts off my head, be sure the Alliance gets these plans, you're my only hope." Then Hig leaned forward, and put his face into the waters of the Pensieve.

_This device could really stand to be optimized,_ Harry thought to himself as he stood and waited. _This can't be the best arrangement… a big washbasin into which you dunk your head? We'll have to see exactly how wide and deep the waters need to be, before memories cease to circulate and transfer. If the water just needs to cover most of your brain, we might be able to make Pensieve headbands, instead._

They all waited, awkwardly watching the back of Hig's head as Pensieve-mist rose around it.

"Pardon my ignorance, but did you go to the Salem Witches Institute, Councilor?" Harry asked Councilor Tineagar, abruptly, while they waited.

"I attended the Russell Center, actually, Mr. Potter. I was Dux Litterarum of my year, as it happens."

"I have never had the pleasure of visiting, unfortunately. I have read of it though, and admired what I read. There is much to be said for the apprenticeship program - working a trade while you learn. May I ask what you specialized in while you were there?"

"Floo connections. We have several different networks that compete, plus private networks. It's different from how you do it here." She hadn't relaxed even slightly. Still: progress, if not perfection. More than one international alliance began with small talk.

"Mm. I like the idea of that sort of private competition in theory, but it seems like the free market would be particularly merciless in the process of sorting itself out. Floo injuries can be very unpleasant, and by the time people switched to the better network, the price paid for that information could be measured in terms of lives."

"There are minimum standards for safety, and there's an official bureau assigned by the Magical Congress to do inspections. Have you considered that perhaps competition between networks would work better than a single central authority to promote safety? If I hear that Greater Boston left someone splinched out of a toe, then I'll pick the Other Light without hesitation. But if some junior assistant undersecretary in the British Department of Magical Transportation makes a mistake with your connection here, where do you go? Nowhere, you just cross your fingers and hope they fire the fool."

"You make a good point. But there's a better way to settle this than argument. We can-"

"What in the name of Mukwooru's toe?!" Hig spluttered as he jerked backwards, staring at Harry in confusion and alarm and (it appeared) mild disgust.

"Ah. Yes." Harry said, grimacing. "That was what my parents would call the 'Salamander Incident.' "

"But… but _why_?! Those poor people…" Hig stammered.

Harry shrugged. "In my salad days, when I was green in years, I was rather too creative and too bored and too clever. Everyone recovered, I assure you. No lasting harm done."

Hig sat down on the floor for a moment, plunking himself down without ceremony next to the Pensieve. He tugged his robes around his knee where a fold had gotten caught. The motion was half-hearted; the man seemed stunned. Harry didn't blame him.

Tineagar turned to the Pensieve, but Harry cleared his throat loudly and stepped to it with a quick step, dipping his wand into it and retrieving the memory. "I think," he said, "that I'd prefer that as few people see this as possible. Apologies, Councilor." Harry looked at the viscous gobbet of glowing silver. "Really, I see a lot of appeal in just destroying it, but we only develop our psychic muscles with hard times and oppression." He brought the wand to his forehead, and returned the memory to its place with a reversed twisted of his wrist. He grimaced.

It took a bit, but Hig recovered himself in impressively short order, rising to his feet. "Mr. Potter, I have no words."

"It was part of a contest between myself and two other boys, you see."

"And the - "

"Inside the walls," Harry answered, promptly.

"But the - "

"Bought in Hogsmeade."

"Well," said Hig heavily. "You are not Voldemort. He would not have allowed this to be known about him."

_Not true_, Harry thought. _If it served his purposes, and it was worth the price, he would allow himself to be ridiculous. It would have seemed a high cost, but heading off a worldwide rebellion would be worth it. This man does not fully appreciate the extent to which Voldemort's public persona was a facade._

"Indeed, I am not Voldemort. I oppose his purposes at virtually every turn, and we are natural allies, not enemies." Harry folded his arms, but showed a small smile. The tension and the antagonism between them was entirely dispelled.

"No," said Tineagar, interrupting the two of them. Harry and Hig turned to regard her. Harry was mildly surprised - had he been too friendly with her, and dispelled a mystique that would have kept her quiet? - but Hig's gaze was sharply attentive. She continued, "Reg says that you are not Voldemort, given what he has seen. I will abide by his judgment on that score, though it is suspiciously convenient for you, Mr. Potter. But _everything else_ he said was true, and all the other patterns we have discerned remain."

She folded thin fingers into each other, and met Harry's eyes with the look of a raptor at hunt among its natural prey. "You may not be the Dark Lord Voldemort, but that does not mean you are not the Dark Lord Potter. The fact that Reg's theory is wrong does not prove that you are a good man."

Hig gathered himself noticeably. By all accounts he was a passionate man. He'd once stood alone in the chambers of the Council of Westphalia, Harry had heard, and argued for an end to the official persecution of centaurs (which had still been registered as Dark Creatures in the Westphalian laws at the time). It took three weeks for deliberations, but by the end, this man who'd stood alone had convinced a full majority of the Council. And while much of that was politics and cleverness - holding back his solid allies, like this Councilor Tineagar, from joining him until he needed some momentum - you just couldn't do that without some fire in your belly. It made him liable to large shifts of emotional stance. Harry saw, now, why Hig had brought Tineagar with him here. She was a partner who was not given to being caught up in events, rather than a minion.

"Limpel is correct." Hig said. "The owl is not white, but that doesn't make it black."

"True," Harry admitted. "But this is, I hope, a foundation. I hope to persuade you, in time, by showing you the ways in which you are wrong. You think I am raising the dead by dark rituals? Meet Ms. Hermione Granger, who has been my dearest friend for years, and have a conversation with her. She is no Inferi, and no monster. You think I am controlling those that we heal here? Let me show you the clinic, so you can see some of the lives we save.

"I have shown you a hidden secret, and made myself vulnerable to you." Hig nodded. Harry continued. "I have cooperated, even though it leaves me at greater risk if you choose to defect, because we are at a beginning here together. A beginning is the time for taking the most delicate care that the balances are correct. We have laid something between us, and we can build upon it."

Tineagar held his eyes, then nodded curtly. Hig nodded as well. After a moment, he made a noise in his throat, clearing it. "We can begin building now, in fact… in some small measure. You have shared a deep secret, knowing that it could be used against you. I respect that, as a measure to demonstrate trust. I can only tell you now that I am sorry to say that your secret, and that memory, may have already gone further than you wished."

Harry felt a shiver run down his spine. He suppressed the temptation to blurt out, like a child, that he knew what Hig was about to say. There was no need for him to demonstrate his cleverness, and it was stupid to show off. He was no longer a child.

"We wished to ensure that the world could stand against you in the same way they stood against Grindelwald, and the best way seemed to be to unite everyone behind unequivocal evidence before any more harm was done. And so, I am sorry to say, we both are wearing enchanted buttons." He tapped one of the buttons on his robe's collar. "Everlasting Eyes. Quite a new innovation. We had them made specifically for this meeting, and we wanted something you could not easily defeat. We had heard of the magnitude of your defences. Thus, everything we see and hear has been sent out from here to a small group of Councilors that we wanted as witnesses. And that might include the, uh, Salamander Incident."

"Well, thank you for telling me. I hope I can rely on your discretion?" Harry said.

"Yes, Mr. Potter, you may. We will not betray your confidence, and I will take every measure necessary."

Harry nodded. "How did you get them past our security?" An auror should have detected them, or a Probity Probe, or at least the bottled chizpurfles.

"We have been paying attention to you and your enemies here in Britain," Mr. Hig said, and Harry allowed himself a smile. "We have noticed your use of Muggle devices, as I mentioned, and have looked to them with the attention they deserve. Muggles are benighted, and they merit our care and stewardship, but perhaps even we defenders of their rights had allowed ourselves to underestimate their cunning. Cleverness is everywhere in nature. The first wizard to enchant a broomstick, in the dark depths of old Germania, must have looked to birds as their inspiration, after all."

Too many of Harry's erstwhile allies held this same "magical man's burden" view of things. But it was a correctable error, given time and influence. No wizard scoffed at Muggles once they'd seen the still beauty of the stars, untrammelled by air.

"The Everlasting Eye is a 'passive bug.' It's not an insect, though," Hig said, smiling. Harry repressed his own expression. "A 'bug' is a Muggle device for listening in, and a 'passive bug' is very difficult to detect," Hig continued. "I first found out about the gimmick through an amusing linguistic coincidence, but that's not important now. The important thing is that it doesn't have electricity in it. It's acting like a dish resonating the cavity, and it gets its power from electricity being sent all through the air right now. There is a camera with it, that gets its electricity from the same source. Not a trace of magic - not even a Charm of Perfect Function - and yet it works well despite dense magics surrounding it, unlike other Muggle gimmicks."

Both of the Americans looked very proud of themselves, notwithstanding their evident lack of understanding of the principles involved. The camera part of the device was probably useless here, for example, since it did have its own electronic components. Still, a passive capacity resonator was a clever idea. Blast out a strong enough signal of the correct frequency, and you could probably drown out any magical interference and get a clean audio signal. And however superior he might feel at listening to that stumbling explanation, he should remember that this could well have worked, under other circumstances. His own familiarity with much of modern technology and his grasp of the correct terminology didn't count for much if it didn't actually help him _win._

Harry said only, "This is a new device. Perhaps the special spells laid over the Tower which permit our improved Transfiguration will interfere with the broadcast? Many of them would have been unknown to you when you were testing this gimmick."

"Perhaps," Hig agreed, sounding doubtful.

"Regardless, I appreciate your confidence in telling me. It would be an unpleasant surprise, otherwise. It is an exceedingly clever gambit." Harry turned and indicated the corridor out of the Records Room. "Will you permit me to show you around the Tower some more?" Harry glanced at his wristwatch. "We should stop by the clinic, first, and then perhaps the Ypsilanti Yard."

The rest of the visit went well, although Harry couldn't say they'd ever let their guard down, or that there'd been much more progress. Councilor Tineagar, particularly, was often watching him with suspicion. Councilor Hig, at least, was caught up in absorbing everything he saw and heard. The three had parted company on better terms - if not friendly - and at least some of the rhetoric from across the seas ratcheted down somewhat in tone. Progress really had been made, and all it required was some momentary humiliation on Harry's part. He considered it a wise investment, and thought things were going very well, indeed.

It wasn't until the next week that the first bomb was owled to the Council of Westphalia, wrapped in the elegant silver and green paper of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Malfoy.

≡≡≡**Ω≡≡≡**

As far as the Muggle world knew, the Turkish Mandrake, or Loschtak (_Mandragora turcomanica_) was extinct. Even most witches and wizards thought that this useful tuber had died out seventy years ago, when one of Grindelwald's death squads, the Kardját Záh, burned Borley Rectory to the ground. The "Sword of Záh" had been infamous for their completeness, after all.

The species was not entirely extinct, however. Certain corners of the world still harbored a few plants, and among them was the Department of Mysteries. They were a valuable and rare commodity. The common mandrake was grown everywhere in the wizarding world; extracts of the root were often used in different sorts of potions, and the pulped fibres were employed by paper-makers to produce paper suitable for magical portraits. The Turkish mandrake, on the other hand, could be occasionally used to temporarily coax information out of an unstable ghost. Such a property had infrequent but useful purposes, particularly for the purposes of law enforcement. The Unspeakables would sometimes, under conditions of great secrecy, thus produce for an inquiring auror a steaming mash of boiled mandrake. The steam could solidify a ghost's bonds with the world, for a time, and permit questioning.

Six years ago, many new requests and orders had begun pouring into the Department. What began as a trickle - after the famous return and final defeat of Voldemort in 1992 and the establishment of a new order - became a torrent eleven months later, with a dozen requests being issued on the day after Walpurgisnacht in 1993. They'd been required to rededicate the Hall of Prophecy, now called the Hall of Science, and a program of research had been prescribed, guided by new personnel. There had been a long new list of ethical guidelines, many of which had been extremely bizarre. And there had also been a call for any hoarded artifacts which might serve specific purposes. Madame Bones had spent two days in hidden halls with the Line of Merlin, to assist the search.

One such purpose had been the ability to sustain the human mind outside of the body. In the most impenetrable bureaucratic jargon imaginable ("...notwithstanding all other requests beyond the aforesaid or any others that might arise _inter alia_, the party of the second part shall in the instant case and with regard to all appertaining items, substances, phenomena...), the Department was tasked with attempting to fulfill this request. Any possibilities were to be written up in triplicate and owled to the Headmaster of Hogwarts. This destination went a long way towards explaining the request: the power and density of the magics surrounding that school, and the insane events which often occurred on its grounds, had often spawned bizarre requests of the Department.

Dumbledore, for example, had once asked them to produce from their vaults the Seventh Hammer of the Shona, stating that he wished to destroy a rock of unknown provenance and import with utter certainty.

This time, the Unspeakables wrote up descriptions of various possibilities, after three weeks of research. And after a tedious process of discussion, deliveries, and deliberation, Harry Potter had finally asked for the delivery of several whole Turkish mandrakes. A year later, he'd asked for the delivery of eight more. And as far as the Unspeakables knew, that was the end of it.


	6. George Jaxon

The description on Hermione Granger's Chocolate Frog card was as follows:

_Also known as "The Goddess," Granger is one of the world's leading proponents for the Treaty for Health and Life. She is also famous for her resurrection during the final defeat of Lord Voldemort in 1992, and her resulting ability to destroy Dementors. In her spare time, she teaches at the Tower School of Doubt._

Hermione flipped the card over, and looked at the picture of herself. She recognized the look she was trying to portray in the moving image: she'd named it "demure strength." It began with a strong and direct gaze looking out at the viewer, and then her chin lowered as she dropped her eyes down and just to the right, two locks of hair falling alongside her cheek. Then it looped again, as she lifted her face back to the viewer.

The infinite loops of magical photography were fascinating. She had posed for this photograph, of course… it was part of her carefully-managed public image campaign. The message was deliberately modeled on the "cult of the virgin" of the first Queen Elizabeth: _I am supremely powerful but not scary_. But even if the magical camera had a long exposure time - or however it worked - how did it fill in the "second" part of the loop, where she looked back up at the viewer? It wasn't just a reversal or rewind, which meant that… what? Did the camera _create_ its own imagery to make a coherent looping picture?

She made a face, and put the card back on her desk. Hermione had maybe thirty copies of the card. Apparently whenever a child anywhere in Britain (or Australia or New Zealand) got an extra copy of her card, they were sending it to her. This didn't make any sense at all, and yet her personal assistant kept finding them in Hermione's mail, often accompanied by a childish letter (Hermione had read one: "dear Miss Granger: I admire you for these reasons: you are brave, you do whats rihgt, you kill Dementors. And those are the reasons I admire you. Sincerely, Hosea Hussey").

As she went to her wardrobe, she mused over what the card might have said, if she had been given the opportunity to write the description herself. _Hermione Granger, the nineteen-year-old daughter of two dentists from Surrey, is famous for her vigilante attacks on the national property of five different magical states and her pivotal role in various plots for world revolution. _She picked through the hanging robes as she thought, looking for something appropriately formal. _Miss Granger is part unicorn and part troll, combined in a way that makes absolutely no sense unless you've read a lot of comic books._

Hermione pulled out a long, pale blue set of formal robes - essentially an elaborate ball gown interwoven with charms. This set had a plunging back and short, pointed sleeves. It would send a subtle message to the right onlooker, while still showing off her figure. She smiled, then frowned when she noticed her nails. The polish had come off, and they had returned to their entirely too shiny and bright natural state. Sighing, she put down the robes, and grabbed the polish from the vanity.

She felt responsible for the deaths of some magical and truly wondrous creatures, and it was hard enough on her conscience that she felt guilty voicing any complaints. Two unicorns had died for Hermione, even if she hadn't been in a position to object either time, and it seemed like sacrilege to feel anything but gratitude. She didn't feel quite as badly about the trolls, much less the dragons, lethifolds, or other Dark creatures (and _to hell _with the Dementors!), but she would never dishonour the memory of those unicorns. Or Granville. Her mouth tightened, and her eyes burned for a second, but she ignored it and finished her nails.

Once they'd dried to a suitably dull sheen, and she'd dressed and put on her necklace, Hermione stood in front of the standing mirror. She examined herself critically. The shade of blue was light enough that she did not appear too pale (her slight tan was eternal and unchanging), and the shape hugged her form tightly enough to be appealing, but not so tightly as to be embarrassing. Time to go.

She grabbed her overnight bag, then went up the stairs and out through the hatch, which smoothly opened for her. Stepping lightly out of the drawer, she emerged from the trunk and glanced around. Quiet in the house. That was normal. She checked the door. Wards and warnings were still in place, and a single hair was still stuck where she'd placed it last week (not her own hair, of course). No one had been in. This room was dusty, though… she had better clean up when she had a chance. Not now, though.

For now, Hermione was simply on her way: she stepped to the other side of the room and opened the light chestnut Vanishing Cabinet that stood there. She closed the door only for a second, and when she opened it again, she was looking at a different room, though there had been no sensation of change. Then all she had to do was Apparate (destination, determination, deliberation) out of this second rented and well-secured flat, and she was in Hogsmeade. Relatively easy, considering how much security these precautions provided.

Most witches and wizards would not routinely use a Vanishing Cabinet or Apparation during their daily routine this way. The risk of splinching was not great, but if you roll a hundred-sided die enough times, eventually it'll land on one. But Hermione didn't have to worry about that. Her body knew the shape it was supposed to be, and continually transfigured itself into that shape. Even if she was splinched during her commute, thanks to a small flaw in the Cabinet or lax concentration during Apparating, the worst that would happen was that she might lose a few liters of her grey blood.

Only a few things could hurt Hermione. Serious curses could damage or incapacitate her, but she was immune to most lesser hexes. They couldn't be exactly sure why - it was either her continuous transfiguration or the curative properties of her blood - but she just shrugged them off. She felt the Jelly-Legs Jinx as a moment's tremble in her knees, and _Immobulus _just made her joints stiff. In lab tests, acid also hurt her, and prevented her from regenerating the wound for ten or twenty seconds.

But fire was the most serious danger, and that included an unfortunate number of offensive spells. There were twenty-three common attack spells that used flames or great heat, and forty lesser-known, regional, or particularly difficult others.

Hermione's body had been imbued with the magical nature of both a unicorn and a troll. Trolls had tissues and bones that were magically reinforced. Assuming that trolls were the creation of some vile wizard in a past age, this property was probably what allowed them to attain their great size (up to four meters) without bursting their blood vessels or cracking their femurs. They also continuously transfigured themselves, presumably into the shape dictated by their DNA (it wasn't a single stable pattern, since trolls had natural life cycles).

Unicorns, on the other hand, had a magical aura of innocence and purity, as well as blood suffused with a powerful life-affirming effect. It didn't actually regenerate damage, but even the most grievously wounded person would clutch to life if they imbibed the blood of a unicorn. And of course, unicorn keratin was enchanted to have a tensile strength beyond nearly any other material.

It was still a little odd, even after all these years: she, Hermione Granger, was supernaturally strong and fast and graceful, thanks to otherworldly muscle function. She had an aura that inclined people to think well of her, and which made her seem innocent and pure. She could not be poisoned, nor affected by disease - she never even suffered muscle fatigue since harmful metabolites were transfigured out of existence. She was resistant to most damaging magics, and healed immediately from many others. Even fire or acid could only temporarily harm her, since anything less than complete incineration probably wouldn't sever her body's grasp on life. _Avada Kedavra_ would presumably still kill her, and Fiendfyre had already done so. But overall…

Well, she was a superhero. It was kind of a huge responsibility, but at least she was able to help a great many people. And today, she was off to the States, to investigate a bombing that was said to have been the work of Narcissa Malfoy or one of her guerilla-fighting miscreant allies. Let it never be said that her life was boring.

**≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡**

"_Harry, you know something about this, and you're not telling me. No, even worse… this is part of some _plan_. You're pulling strings here, and I don't know what's on the other end. And you've been _different_ lately."_

"_I'm the same as I always have been."_

"_No. You're different. It started when you sent your parents away. I'm sorry, I know you don't want to talk about it, but-"_

"_You're right. I don't. It's hard for me think straight when I think about that, so please don't make it harder."_

"_All right. I'm sorry. But you're keeping secrets, Harry."_

"_Sometimes I have to do that, even when it comes to you."_

"_For my own good? Or do you just not trust me anymore?"_

"_Hermione, I honestly think you could do everything I am doing, only better."_

"_Then why won't you tell me what's going on?"_

"_I just _can't_ right now. You need to be out there, doing what you're doing. You're saving people. I can't do what you do. So please… trust me."_

"_... all right, Harry."_

≡≡≡**Ω≡≡≡**

Charlevoix and Esther were already waiting for Hermione in the Ministry of Magic Atrium. It was midday, and the crowds were dense, and the two witches were standing next to the Fountain of Magical Brethren so that they could be easily seen.

The Atrium was a fabulous room, and it was thoroughly representative of magical splendour... in a fairly mundane and unimaginative way. In Hermione's opinion, it had the same problem as most of the rest of the wizarding world's decor: it had no central message.

Was it trying to be dignified? It was certainly big enough. Plus, the ceiling was a rich blue, and the floors were dark polished wood.

Was it trying to display affluence? The walls were lined with gilded fireplaces, dozens of offices were visible through huge panes of crystal all along the walls, and there was that huge golden fountain.

Trying to send both messages meant that the expensive parts looked gauche and the dignified parts looked silly. If it had been anything like a priority, Hermione would have dropped a word in the right ear about it, and advised them to tone down the amount of gold covering every crenulation on the wall. As it was, the place was a bit embarrassing. It reminded her of Horace Slughorn, last year at the Yule Ball, when he'd had gotten so woefully drunk on red currant rum that he'd asked her if she wanted to join his "Slug Club." Yuck. _What a git he was_, Hermione thought, as she approached the two Returned. She waved at them, and felt her face overtaken by a broad smile. Her Returned were such wonderful people.

Charlevoix smiled faintly in return, upon seeing her "Goddess." Hermione had barely had a chance to speak to the French witch since the attack in Cappadocia; the Returned had only met at Powis once in the week since, and that meeting was preoccupied with discussion and planning for the care of the seven people rescued from Göreme. One of the seven had only been undergoing the torture there for a few weeks, and a couple of days of rest and chocolate had sufficed before he was ready to go home. The other six had been severely Demented. What was worse, the families of three of these had already insisted that their loved ones be sent back to them, even against Hermione's strongest-worded advice. That still left three to be nurtured and counseled, however.

Esther was watching Hermione and those around her intently. As Hermione paused to greet and give a radiant smile to several witches and wizards waiting in line to Floo out, she could almost feel Esther's gaze crawling over these strangers, looking for trouble. Hermione was grateful. She'd read about people in public office feeling angry or stifled in such a situation, insisting gruffly that their overprotective guardians leave them in peace (like in _Executive Orders_, that dreadful Tom Clancy book that Harry made you read as a how-not-to-do manual, her brain automatically supplied). But that was foolish. When you agreed to do important things, you made yourself a hostage to fate. It was unkind to pretend otherwise.

Hermione anticipated that Esther would also be helpful in other ways on this trip. The witch was not only alert and protective, she was also an American and a symbol of goodwill. Her presence in Azkaban had been a matter of controversy for some years; she had been tried and imprisoned for breeding sphinxes, which was entirely legal in America, but a serious crime in Britain. When she had been freed, there had been an unalloyed message of fierce gratitude issued by the Magical Congress (a body that acted essentially under the direction of the Council of Westphalia, which had controlled a majority of its seats for the past century). It had been an early stroke of good fortune.

Esther had dishwater-blonde hair that she kept in a close bob, and deep hazel eyes. Like Charlevoix, there was a hollowness behind those eyes.

A Dementor's presence was a strange kind of agony, Hermione knew. It wasn't exactly a physical pain. A Dementor seized upon emotions and thoughts that fed the ego or sustained the self, sucking them away. The sensation was entirely novel. It was generally described as a "sucking" because you could feel yourself becoming _less_, but there was no actual physical experience. And after a short time, the feeding became deeper. Positive memories help us define ourselves in the world, and Dementors were ragged holes into which those memories were drawn.

Eventually, victims were left catatonic, as their deepest parts were consumed, as though maggots had hollowed them. They lay in place and suffered, remaining alive through some unknown mechanism of malice (a victim might last months with little or no food) until an infection or heart attack took them.

With the Tower's assistance, the physical damage could all be repaired, even the plaques that developed in the brain. Gentle assistance could then help the Demented begin to rebuild their minds and personalities, using a threefold approach of direct counseling, gradually lengthening visits to positive environments, and exposure to normative values through fiction (_Huckleberry Finn_ was helpful). Hermione had even created a protocol for assisting victims after her experiences with Azkaban, and worked to improve it with each successive set of the Demented for which she cared.

Those who had been exposed for a shorter span often suffered only minor damage to their senses of self, and could return home after a period of recuperation. Even some long-term victims were welcomed back home, where they usually received good care and might eventually recover.

Some committed suicide as soon as they left the program, despite Hermione's best efforts. It tore at her, but there was only so much she could do to prevent it - unless she wanted to make them prisoners again. Harry said that each person had the right to decide how much sorrow they could carry with them, but it was a point of fierce disagreement.

Some had never regained full consciousness, their limbs plastic and their gaze empty. Most of these were in St. Mungo's. Hermione still had hope for them, and often considered the problem.

And then there were the others: the ones who had no home, or no longer wished to be there, or who wanted to devote their lives to fighting the horror they had endured. They had all been restored at the Tower, so they were young and fit and healthy, and they lived active and full lives. But they had a form of post-traumatic stress disorder to which there could be no comparison. Not that she would minimize anyone's tragedy, but the Demented had been spiritually savaged to a preternatural degree. Death had touched their hearts, and it left a hollow that might never be filled.

Hermione gently gave the shake-and-slide to get past the last few strangers eager to meet her. It was a method she'd developed from watching a Muggle Member of Parliament make his way through a crowd once: smile beatifically, grasp their right hand in your own and pull them into a handshake, then put your left hand on their right shoulder as you move on past, setting them beside you and allowing you to keep going forward. She greeted Charlevoix and Esther with a cheerful, "Good morning!" The two witches each had their own bags with them.

They smiled, and Hermione felt a pang in her heart. She loved them so.

"It's time to go home," Esther said. "I'm nervous. I don't remember that much of it."

"I have never been to the Americas," Charlevoix lilted. "And neither has Hermione. So they will show us around and explain things. No one will know."

Hermione nodded. "Yes. This might end up just being public relations. The bombing was yesterday, and Harry told me last night that they'd already cleaned it up and begun their own investigation. There might not be anything for us to contribute." She turned for a second, to lean down and hug a boy who was staring up at her with awe in his eyes.

"What investigation?" Charlevoix asked. "It was the Malfoys and their group of no name."

Hermione shrugged, straightening back up. "They still have to be sure." _Because they think it might be a false-flag attack from Harry, designed to gin up animosity against his enemies_, she thought. _Come to think of it, I don't know that's not true._

_Would he tell me, if it were?_

"Let's go," Esther said. "I don't like this crowd."

Hermione reached into an outside pocket of her overnight bag, and pulled out the intercontinental portkey that Harry had given her. It was a short piece of milled copper, with a few divots and a bright blue stripe in the center. Different design than most British portkeys, which were usually wooden. This probably made more sense, actually… it was less likely to trigger by accident, and had an obvious purpose. She'd mention to Harry that they should probably copy this for the Safety Sticks, in case he hadn't thought of it.

"Hold on," she said. Charlevoix scooped up her bag from the floor, shouldered it, and took Hermione's. Then the two witches each grasped one end of the portkey. Hermione took hold of the center, and squeezed her fist. The portkey bent, and there was a sudden lurch yanking them all to the side. Not the left side or the right side, somehow… just: to the side. It was powerful and violent, for this was quite a distance to travel.

Charlevoix and Esther landed easily on their arrival; the two Returned spun back into existence in Boston with the practiced ease of veteran travelers. Hermione barely noticed the landing, whirling _fouetté rond de jambe en tournant_ for a single turn, her eyes already alert to their surroundings.

They were in Boston, and the sun was just rising. Rosy-fingered dawn stretched over the concrete reception platform on the roof of the Alþing of the Mystical and Benevolent Council of Westphalia. Councilor Limpel Tineagar was waiting for them, her arms crossed. She was tall and perhaps overly thin, and her mouth was twisted in a small and bitter smile.

"Hello, Miss Granger, and welcome to the United States of America. Fine morning for a murder investigation, isn't it?"


	7. Aitiai, Diaphorai, and Prophasis

_Þis man, clepid Mundre of the Brook, seiden to Merlin, "How shal we stopje þis end?"_

_And Merlin ondswered in his drede, "Þat we may not come to the fate of Atlantis, which has passed out of __þ__is world to nouȝt, I shall seal alle away. Ac even __þ__is lechecrafte, pestilence and blessyng both, shall not suffice. Manne moste wax in kunnynge." And whanne __þ__ei hadden herd the princeps incantatorum speke __þus__, __þei were trublid._

Harry Lowe, _The Transmygracioun, _passus duodecimus

**≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡**

"Tarleton had been here two years. He was a smart boy, and he had ambitious plans," Councilor Tineagar said, as they approached the door to the mailroom. "I didn't know him well, but I did have several occasions to speak with him in his role as clerk. He wanted to be nominated as Councilor someday."

"Every loss is a tragedy, but particularly someone with a bright future ahead of them. How long does that sort of advancement usually take, if you'll forgive my ignorance?" Hermione asked, following her. Charlevoix and Esther trailed them both.

"Usually a score of years," Tineagar said, "but he wanted to achieve a nomination within his first decade at the Council. That would be unusual, but not impossible." She pushed open the door. "Tarleton had promise, and his murder is a terrible thing."

The mailroom of the Council of Westphalia was a blackened ruin. Hermione looked around. It was rather like a puzzle. Those lattices of metal wire, crumpled and torn, must have once been owl cages. And that meant that the crooked metal poles had been owl perches, where they waited for immediate replies. Two fireplaces were mostly undamaged, although the Floo Flounders next to them were both destroyed. The Flounders were like small bellows on the floor, which dispensed a set amount of Floo powder. It was slightly safer and considerably cleaner than using manual pinches of the stuff, especially for children and the elderly. It was also more convenient, since you didn't need to keep a stock in the house. You couldn't do the fancy tricks with them, like tossing a whole handful of powder on the fire and using it for communications, but how often did you really need such a silly means of communication? Hermione wanted one, herself.

Hermione took a step into the room. The stone underfoot had been swept clean or _Scourgified_, since there was no broken glass and little rubble. Hopefully someone had examined it first, although she doubted it. There was no forensic instinct in the magical world - just a general sense that the untidiness should be immediately fixed. For generations, careful cleanliness had been one of the things that distinguished wizardkind from the rest of humanity, and so it was still a deeply-abiding tradition.

Well, that was okay. She had never expected to just walk in and discover some hidden clue, anyway.

"Someone else saw the package as it was delivered, I suppose?" Hermione asked, stepping further into the room and examining the floor. It was scorched, but less than she might have imagined. One area in particular was quite blackened.

"Yes," Tineagar said, stepping in after her and standing just to one side of the door. "That's how we know it was from Narcissa Malfoy, that vile imperialist bitch." Hermione glanced back at Tineagar, and saw the American witch's face was angry. _Upset at the loss, or upset at the affront?_

"And you know the Malfoys? Did you know Lucius Malfoy, Narcissa's husband?" Hermione asked, gently.

"We exchanged curses, upon a time."

Hermione nodded. Tineagar had been one of those sent from abroad during Grindelwald's War and the Wizarding War. "Even before that, though, Lucius was a problem. For thirty years, he controlled a majority of the British delegation to the Confederation, and they were a constant thorn in our side as we tried to scale back some of the restrictions on Squibs and Beings. For years, it was the Americas and the Ten Thousand against the European coalition when it came to the emancipation movement, fighting over the votes of the delegates from Africa, the islands, and the Sawad. Malfoy helped keep most of Europe united around the status quo. He's the reason why it was legal to _hunt merfolk_ for so many years." Even nearly a decade after the man's death, Hermione could hear the anger in Tineagar's voice.

"Matters are different, now," Hermione suggested. She did _not _mention the awkward fact that the vote for an International Statute for Health and Life had also failed, in large part thanks to the opposition of that same American-Eastern bloc. But the Confederation had dismembered a dozen international restrictions on Squibs and Beings, so there had been some progress in the right direction. Harry had even, at Hermione's urging, begun planning out a campaign to give different Beings seats in the Confederation itself, although that wasn't yet public knowledge.

"Yes… the, ah, _incidents_ of 1992 and the establishment of the Tower changed the positions of many Things. Egypt and Kenya, for example, switched their votes on the merfolk issue right after it became apparent that there were going to be no more bribes."

Hermione bent to one knee, tracing a finger through the light layer of soot on the floor. "I'm not sure if we should be happy that their true position is the moral one, or unhappy that money could change their minds so readily."

Tineagar crossed her arms, and just made an inarticulate murmur of assent. Hermione turned her full attention to the crime scene.

Observations first. No theories, no guesses, no imagination. What do I _see?_

Owl cages and owl perch over there… some long tables, mostly undamaged… one table in pieces and quite blackened… floor has a settled layer of soot on it and a small amount of loose debris… large numbers of empty and unmarked cubbyholes along another wall… ceiling seems mostly unmarked, although it was hard to say if the grey stone had been made dingy... some sort of dried brownish stains over in one corner, looked like blood… fireplaces undamaged but Floo Flounders destroyed… various supplies still in evidence with stacks of parchment, bottles of ink, and a pot of Floo powder on one fireplace mantle… the destroyed cages and perches for the owls were also sooty but otherwise unsoiled…

"Almost done?" Tineagar said from behind her. The American witch was clearly unhappy that Harry had requested Hermione's presence with such vigor, or that her fellow Councilors had agreed to the gesture. Or maybe she (and they) had assumed it would just be a token visit. "Not much to see, I'm afraid."

Hermione looked back at the American, whose pinched face looked displeased. "There's quite a lot, actually."

Tineagar shook her head. "We've already done all the searching that can be done. Scrying, spell-trace, all the usual. But we found no surprises. No destructive spells were cast here, and no one Apparated or portkeyed out after the attack. You can see the Flounders were destroyed. This damn Muggle device had no magic at all… it was like a Dungbomb, but with fire and force. For now, we're calling it a Blastbomb."

_I'll just write that down with my Writingpencil on this Parchmentnote, _Hermione could hear Harry say in her head.

"Did you go back further and check?" A question that was vague nonsense unless you already knew about Time-Turners. Hermione assumed that Tineagar was aware of them, given the rather nauseating amount of information that Hig and his allies commanded, but information hygiene was an important habit.

Tineagar shook her head. "We're time-locked here. It's not to prevent this sort of thing, actually. I'm not sure if you ever heard of Albrecht Perel?" Hermione shook her head. Tineagar continued. "Well, in the sixties, there was one particular wizard who would go back an hour in time whenever he wished to prepare for a difficult turn of debate. When challenged on any point of rhetoric, he would spend an hour revising his speech, mustering supporters, and extracting relevant promises from allies. The end result was that he would smash through his agenda every time, since everyone was already committed to supporting it and the opposing arguments had already been defeated. When others started trying to do the same thing, then the stakes went up… participants were going back in time over and over, to try to out-prepare with information from the future. As I understand it, the transcripts from such meetings stopped making sense… just a jumble of foregone conclusions describing rhetorical battles that had only existed in implication. One of our seers went mad, screaming about a loop with only one side."

Tineagar grimaced, her upper lip hunching near her narrow nose. "Eventually, Albrecht tried to break the stalemate by going back six hours, then having an assistant try to take his notes back another six hours to conduct an opinion poll. Albrecht, the assistant, and three bystanders were all wiped from existence like a smear of ketchup… and we locked time in the Alþing. That is the purpose of that precaution… to guard the sacred integrity of debate."

"Not the worst reason I've ever heard," Hermione commented, walking over to the long tables on the other side of the room, which probably would normally have been in the center of the mailroom.

"Found anything of interest yet, Ms. Granger?" Tineagar asked. "While I appreciate your efforts in this, especially since it was one of Britain's radicals at fault, I'm not sure there's anything for you here."

There was a significant edge of suspicion in Tineagar's voice. _Is there any way to reassure her that I'm not here to spy on them, but to look into this bombing? They must think I just want to snoop. _Hermione couldn't think of anything. She'd certainly been whisked here without much of an opportunity to look around, and the passage of air along the hall had suggested that at least a few of the walls had been illusory. And while her reputation was impressive, there probably wasn't anything to suggest to the Councilor that Hermione would have better powers of investigation than what they could have mustered already.

"I'm not sure yet. I think it's important to just look at everything and ask questions and think a bit, first, before you try to start figuring things out," Hermione said, touching the table in front of her. It had nothing on it but a light coating of more soot. Not scorched… it looked like the settled soot from smoke. _They came in here and cleaned this place _immediately_, otherwise the _Scourgifies_ would have carried all of this away. But if this Tarleton had only been working here for two years, then he wouldn't have been entrusted with anything all that secret._

A mailroom that was filled with material sensitive enough to scour away before the smoke had even settled but which was unimportant enough for a relatively new employee to handle?

That didn't make any sense.

_I notice I am confused._

_Ah. I see._

"Some things here don't make sense. And that's because this was not a mailroom for ordinary correspondence," Hermione said, turning to face Tineagar. "It was a processing center for intelligence."

The other witch didn't seem to understand, so Hermione clarified using more specific language. She kept her voice pleasantly neutral. "Councilor Hig and several others here at the Westphalian Council have numerous information-gathering devices, all over the world. This was one of the places where you sorted through some of that information… parchments people were writing that looked important, conversations that sounded interesting." Hermione thought for a second, then amended, "Or at least, Tarleton's job was something to do with that. He could also have been payroll for them, or something."

Tineagar's face soured. "Ms. Granger, this was a mailroom, and I'll thank you not to make a joke out of the death of one of ours."

"If I had to guess, I'd say that probably the second or third thing that your people did in here was to clear away all the parchments and letters, right? Run in and see what happened, check to see if you can help Tarleton, and then go through here with a Gathering Charm and _Scourgify_ right away. That's why everything is still covered with soot and these little flakes of ash, even though all the paper and detritus from the blast is gone. But Tarleton had only worked here for a couple of years. If the parchments coming through here were that important that they needed to be cleared away immediately, before anyone could see or steal them in the confusion, then he wouldn't be allowed to see them."

Hermione pointed at the wall of cubby holes, then at the ruined owl cages. "A lot of information was coming in and out of here, to be sure. But highly confidential owls go right to their recipient, not to a room like this. At the Ministry back home, this sort of room is for processing and sorting generic inquiries or complaints… nothing you'd want to obliterate immediately."

She turned back to Tineagar. "But the Council does have something that the Ministry doesn't have… many ways of gathering information that produce a flood of parchment. Shopping lists, fan mail, and conversations about tea - plus the occasional important letter about a secret plot. So why have a low-level employee sort through secret parchments? Well, when you have a thousand secret parchments a day, you _have_ to use low-level employees. They're just instructed to sort through and kick anything that looks important upstairs."

Tineagar was shaking her head. "None of this is important, even if it were true. You're not here to seek out the way the Council operates or to spy on us." Her voice was tight with anger and what may have been apprehension.

"I'm not here to spy on you, you're right," Hermione agreed. "And I'm sorry if it seems like I'm getting into your business." She approached Tineagar, her steps light but her eyes intent. "But just this month, a bomb much like this one nearly killed me. It sat in a satchel as close to me as you are now, and if I'd been a few seconds slower…" She gestured at the scorched floor.

The American frowned again, and spoke with acid tones. "Yes, I read about that. As I recall from the papers, the Malfoy faction has been giving you quite a lot of trouble."

"Ever since 1993. They've been underground for six years, and we've had disappearances over that time as others have joined them. Narcissa and Draco are clever and resourceful… they've broken into Gringott's and they've burgled the Department of Mysteries at the Ministry, and I never would have thought either of those things were possible. And they've never stopped trying to bolster their support… publishing newsletters, threatening Beings, and generally being a dangerous nuisance. It's been hard for us all to handle." Hermione felt her voice become a little strained as she spoke.

_She dangled from the edge of the roof, her shoulder aching and her wrist caught tight in the grip of a white-haired boy. "He's going to come help me, but first he's going to _Luminos_ both of us, there's no way he wouldn't. You have to let me go. Do it, do it, Draco, do it, you can beat him yourself_ we have to win Draco!"

Hermione blinked rapidly for a moment. "So quite a lot of trouble, yes."

"And how many friends have you lost?" Tineagar asked, glancing pointedly at the corner, toward the brownish stains. She clearly knew the answer.

"Some people injured and many scared, but this is the first time they've actually taken a life," Hermione admitted. "They had never even tried anything like this until this month, with their attempt on Harry and me in London. I was - am - surprised that they've resorted to this. I honestly have never really believed that Draco could have wanted to take any life." _Much less my life._

"It is indeed very unlike what I know about the Malfoy clan's behavior. Lucius would never have resorted to something this crude, or this pointless, as abhorrent as he was. This murder seems to serve no purpose except to terrorize us." The last sentence was heavy with meaning.

"Indeed," Hermione said. "It is a vicious and violent crime, and you will be driven straight into the arms of Harry Potter and the Treaty for Health and Life, especially since he also attempted to attack me. We have the same enemy, let's fall into each other's embrace." She was disgusted, and let it show as she glared at Tineagar.

_She thinks this that Harry or I arranged this and the other bombing attempt, to try to make a common enemy_ (the thirty-fourth strategem of Zhuge Liang, her brain automatically supplied: Inflict Injury on Oneself to Gain the Enemy's Trust)_. But if we intended that, would we be this _stupid_ about it?_

"Maybe you're not so crude, either," Tineagar grudged. "But then what was the point of this? I see no reason to murder a promising young clerk, no matter what parchments were here. There's no political power to be gained by this… no one has been intimidated or frightened in the slightest. The witches and wizards of the Council are mostly made of stout stuff, but even the cowards would be ashamed to yield in the face of such an obvious tactic. If a vote were held on your treaty today, the results would be the same as yesterday."

Tineagar stepped to the door and through it. Charlevoix and Esther peered from either side of the frame into the room, to check on their leader. They had remained so utterly silent that Hermione had almost forgotten they were waiting. She smiled at them both a bit wryly, then looked back to Tineagar. "Councilor, I have the same questions. Let us work through them together. _Cui bono?_"

" 'Who benefits?' " Tineagar asked. "Only the Tower, I should think. At least some of magical America will reflexively side with him against his known enemy and the purported attacker, Narcissa Malfoy." She halted in the hall. Maybe just being in that room made her uncomfortable. Not because of Tarleton's fate, but because of what it implied about her own vulnerability. That would be normal.

"Granted. But that's what the Tower himself would call a 'first-level deception.' And you've met Harry… can you honestly say that he would be this dumb or this sloppy? If he was planning some sort of bombing campaign, then I can assure you that there would be no clumsy casualties and you would not be able to figure out his plot this easily." Realizing what she was saying, Hermione quickly went on. "But even more to the point: Harry's entire goal in life is to stop people from dying. If you only knew how greatly he cares for every human life, you could never think this of him."

"Then you think this is a second-level deception? We are meant to suspect the Tower, by the bomber's design? That seems too cute by far. And given that the Tower is as subtle as you say, the natural conclusion is that this is a third-level deception, is it not?" Tineagar shook her head, and then started off down the hall, leading the way once more. Hermione followed, and behind them both followed the two Returned.

_This woman contradicts everything you say. _"Then let's get more information. Can I examine the body? Bombs are made of specific kinds of chemicals and metal shells, and sometimes certain principles of science can be used to trace their origins."

"The family has claimed it. His identity was verified down to the curve of his soul by his friend and fellow clerk, hired at the same time and intimately familiar with the boy - not someone who could be fooled. It was not a death doll or any other simulacrum." Tineagar turned a corner in the corridor, around to… another featureless corridor of grey stone. Why were so many magical headquarters built of grey stone? Was that material particularly easy to ward, or was it just the lingering effects of medieval architectural trends?

"Curve of his soul?" Hermione said.

"It's just a saying from a story here. We're sure it was Tarleton, and his body is gone."

"Hm. I wonder… who was first into the room, after explosion? Is that something you can tell me?"

Tineagar paused for a moment to glance back at her, then continued on. "Two witches named Sybil and Cynthia were first, one after the other. They work in another mailroom, nearby."

"Is it possible to view their memory of what they first saw?" Hermione asked, hopefully. "There might be a clue that was wiped away." _And I noticed something, and I need to confirm it._

The American came to a full stop, and turned around. She was tall and thin, and she drew herself up to her full height. Her voice was arch with irritation. "I am not going to drag one of those poor girls out of their home after they just saw their co-worker murdered yesterday, and ask her to dwell on that memory."

Hermione folded her arms and looked up at Tineagar. Behind her, she could hear Esther shift slightly in place. Ever-ready Esther. "Councilor, a man is dead, and you're still worried about what I might see." She raised her voice to speak over Tineagar's immediate protests, continuing, "I know this is upsetting, but the Muggles have discovered a principle as inviolable as Gamp's Law. It's called Lorcard's Principle, and it says that every contact leaves a trace. Your fingertips leave behind oil or tiny skin flakes on whatever they touch. A bludger leaves a small fibre of leather when it hits a player." In point of fact, certain impervious magical substances left no trace that could be discovered, but that could itself be revealing.

Tineagar had subsided somewhat, but she was still scowling. "A clever criminal leaves no clues. And what do you expect to see… a scrap of cloth caught in the package, which turns out to be from my sleeve?"

Hermione blinked rapidly for a moment in surprise. _Oh_. Was Tineagar now worried that she thought it was a false-flag attack by the Council? She'd missed that. Maybe her scornful words had been too effective, earlier.

"No," she said to the American. "It honestly never occurred to me that you or Councilor Hig could have had anything to do with that. Now that you mention it, though, it becomes obvious that there probably is at least one Councilor who might benefit by this. Sorry, I've been too focused on things from my perspective… foolish of me."

Hermione met Tineagar's gaze, and weighted her expression with every ounce of conviction that was within her. _This woman must know and believe that we are allies in this._ Hermione's eyes had a message. It was a message that had won over countless others to her cause, and helped inspire a dozen to devote themselves wholly to her command. That message was _I am become the world, destroyer of Death. Join me._

"A man was murdered here," Hermione said. "Let's find his killer and punish them, and use every scrap of resources at our command to make that happen."

**≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡**

Thanks to security concerns and personnel issues that Hermione could completely understand, Hermione, Charlevoix, and Esther were sent to wait at Franklin's Nez, a tavern popular with magical Boston. It was a homey place of whitewashed brick walls, heavy oaken tables, and enormous mugs of butterbeer. It also did a side business in recreational Pensieve-use, or "bobbing." It was an expensive form of entertainment - a Galleon per go - because Pensieves were expensive and worthwhile memories even moreso. Hermione assumed that there were probably more illicit versions of the same sort of establishment, that catered to less wholesome demands than memories of skydiving or fighting a giant. There was at least one such place in Britain, or so she'd guess from a sign in Knockturn Alley ("Billie's Bobbing Bubbies").

She drank her butterbeer and spoke quietly with her Returned. She avoided talking about the investigation - prying ears everywhere - and they didn't speak very much about the States or the Americas, either. Hermione knew that it made Esther uncomfortable. She'd been born in Texas, but remembered little that was pleasant about her former home.

They spoke about magical theory, instead. Charlevoix was interested and Hermione loved discussing the recent research, and it was something to take Esther's mind off of their surroundings.

"It is insulting, though - rude, you know? - to say that these things are not branches of magic," Charlevoix said, shaking her head. Her accent put a French edge on every sibilant sound. "Herbology and magizoology… this must make so many angry. It is something I cannot understand." The witch absently plucked at the silver necklace around her throat with her ruined fingertips.

"I heard that Lord Longbottom introduced a resolution to ban pink in the Wizengamot, as revenge," Esther said.

"Neville definitely didn't do that! But you're right, I think it irritated a lot of people. Umbridge's paper might not even have been worth publishing, since it was just sort of a reclassification of things, rather than anything backed up by experimentation." Hermione shrugged. "But that's where the Tower School's thoughts are, these days, along with the Unspeakables working with them." The fact that people routinely used "Tower" as an all-inclusive term to refer to the school of higher learning, the medical clinic and research center, or Harry himself, could be annoyingly ambiguous, but everyone made do.

"I don't see the point," Esther replied. She sounded a bit distracted.

"If all magic is essentially just enchantment or transfiguration, with everything else just being the exploration of some property of already-existing objects like the stars or plants, then we might be actually getting closer to figuring out how magic works at its basics. How does the brain combine with some physical manipulation of the environment to cause changes... even ones that violate physical laws of Muggle science? And it's rather clever to think of potions as just a form of enchantment." Hermione smiled in spite of her efforts to remain calm. While Umbridge's paper had been more of an act of provocation than a usual advance, the whole topic was _fascinating. _She actually knew Harry had gone even further, and was talking about possible theories for a single magical interaction at the heart of everything. It was all fluff and science fiction right now, of course, until they could support any of it with evidence.

She wondered for a moment about Harry. What was he doing now, trapped in the Tower? Trapped into _being_ the Tower? Making someone's healing permanent? Working on the slice-boxes? He seemed to spend more time these days in private, from what she'd seen. Perhaps too much, since she'd noticed him looking a trifle haggard at times. He'd changed.

From behind Hermione, there was a thump and a whoosh of warm air. She saw Esther tense, and Charlevoix raised her eyebrows. Hermione turned to see Councilor Tineagar approaching them, accompanied by a sweaty-looking man with black hair who was certainly Councilor Hig. Hig looked flustered and unhappy, but he still smiled when he saw Hermione.

"This must be the Goddess I've heard so much about! Your patron swore up and down that you would set my mind at ease about any doubts I might still have about him. It's a pleasure. I'm Reginald Black-Horse Hig." Hermione rose from her seat with a motion as fluid as sublimation itself, shaking the man's hand. His face was stubbled with coarse black bristles… he must have been too busy to shave. Not surprising, with recent events.

"I'm sorry we have to meet under these circumstances." She gestured at her two companions, who had risen from their seats, as well. "Councilor, this is Odette Charlevoix and Esther Price, two friends of mine."

Hig was a smart man, Hermione noted. He didn't ask any of the questions that he must have had for the legendary Returned, but simply gave slight bows to the two women. Harry had been impressed with Hig, even as he described the man as "badly needing to read Montesquieu and Orwell if he was going to have any hope at all."

"So you think you can figure out some clues that we could not, Limpel says. Certainly recent advances in transfiguration from the Tower show that Muggle science can bring benefits I'd never have imagined. So we brought something for you, as you requested." Hig gestured at Tineagar, and the witch produced a phial that glowed a faint silver. Her face was still sour. "I'll be interested to learn what good you think this might do."

"I am skeptical," said Tineagar, as she offered the phial. "But I learned a long time ago that others may see things I do not, and I admit you've not yet given me any reason to distrust you."

"My mother taught me to check in every crevice and corner before giving up. I hope I don't disappoint," Hermione said. It had been a lesson in flossing, but it was still good advice. She accepted the phial without further ado, and the entire group moved to one of the two smaller adjacent chambers, in which stood a Pensieve.

She poured the memory into the waters of the device. Thick white vapor welled up, and images began to swirl in the Pensieve. She dipped in her face.

The scene was chaotic from the moment it began, confused and cloudy in the way of any Pensieve view constructed from only one participant's memories. A pair of women, faded and ghostly like overexposed film, ran down a hall of the Alþing towards a door. Black smoke was pouring out from under the door into the hall, but the women ran towards it anyway. One of them - Sybil or Cynthia, Hermione didn't know - snatched open the door and ran into the smoke. Hermione's Pensieve-self was swept forward into the billows of blackness, and for a moment she could see nothing. But then she saw the first woman running in towards a mutilated body, bloody and blackened and lying in one corner. The other just froze in her tracks and began screaming. Owls were streaming out the open door, leaving behind their ruined cages. Many lay dead. Hermione had a long moment, then, when her Pensieve-self could turn in place and look closely around the room. Some spots were indistinct or faded into nothing, but a majority of the room was visible. There were some additional clues about the bomb - useful things to tell the Americans, at any rate. She could see a metal cap lying near the blasted table where the bomb had been opened, first off… this had been a bomb sealed into a pipe. Any Muggleborn Brit who paid attention to the news knew something about that, so Hermione at least knew the basic concept. The only other fragment she noticed was a brownish metal thing with two little wires sticking out of it. She didn't recognize it, but it was something to note.

She paused and to stare at the detail she'd noticed earlier. It was the same. And the implications, when she reasoned through it... Her stomach turned, and she felt sick.

With a mental and physical effort, she pushed herself out of the memory, and straightened up from the Pensieve. She stood blinking for a second, then looked at Hig and Tineagar, who were standing by, impatiently.

"That was… terrible to see, Councilors. I'm…" She felt ill, and she paused for a second, staring at the floor. Esther was at her side in a moment, one arm slightly extended in case her Goddess needed help. "I'm sorry that happened to you and yours. I'm sorry that… happened at all."

"Ms. Granger, are you all right?" Tineagar asked, gently. Seeing Hermione's reaction must have driven some sympathy in her. "Let's go back and you can have a seat. I watched that myself, and you're right… it is terrible to see. We need drinks, I think. Many drinks."

"Yes," Hermione said, taking Esther's hand in her own. "But there is at least some good news. I can tell you some things about the device, I think. I think it was a thing called a 'pipe bomb'... an amateur device."

But in her head, even as she spoke, all she could think was: _Oh, Harry… no…_

**≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡**

_Note: You possess all necessary information to solve the puzzle._


	8. Morse Four

_May 1st, 1238 C.E._

_7:34 p.m._

_Cottage of Ignotus and Cadmus Peverell, Sontag, Britain_

_Here translated into modern English vernacular and stripped of the lies of idiots._

"Antioch will not accept this," said Cadmus, leaning back in his chair. He was huge and hairy. Sitting there with no shirt, the light of the fire made the blonde hairs on his arms and shoulders and chest glint as if they were golden wires. He clasped his hands over his big belly, and made a deep sound of discontent at the thought of his brother's anger.

"He'll have to accept it," Ignotus said from the hearth, where he was sitting on a small stool. "He has no choice. We've done our best."

"He'll be upset, and it will turn to fighting. It always does." Cadmus wasn't afraid, but it tore at his heart when he had to fight with his older brother. By tacit agreement, they didn't use wands, and the bruises and breaks were quick to heal… but he knew their mother would have wept to see it.

"Antioch only lashes out when he thinks he can change things with his fists. But nothing can change magic itself. Or at least, we can't. Too much has been lost to us; too much lore has been forgotten. A perfect cloak cannot exist. To try to make one would kill the enchanter, and I have no wish to die." Ignotus stared into the flames, his eyes distant as he spoke. "And if he tries to hurt you again, I'll leave."

"That would make him happy," Cadmus said, bitterly. And indeed, years ago he and Antioch had come to blows over Ignotus' presence.

"Once, perhaps. Not now. He knows that he could do little without me." Ignotus was not boasting. It was nothing but the truth to say that he was the greatest wizard in Britain. The research of the two Peverell brothers had been fruitless until they were joined by Ignotus Hand.

Cadmus was silent for a time, and the two men stared into the fire. At length, the bigger fellow said, "You think we are in the latter days of the world."

"The middling days, yes. Our power wanes."

"Because the eastern ley has been lost, and the goblins have dared to take up arms, and the Cup of Midnight has broken? There have always been problems, and now is no different. Do not be so dour."

Ignotus wrapped his arms around his knees, and leaned down to rest his cheek on them. He was all folded up, and he looked weary. "Merlin damned us. Merlin has damned all the generations of men to come. All our lore is a fraction of the knowledge of our fathers, and so it has been now for five centuries."

"He had no choice… the world was doomed, else. You know the stories. And we have made great discoveries. The Spirit Stone-" Cadmus protested.

"-Is but a pallid imitation of what the elders of Atlantis could do, without even a wand," Ignotus said. He no longer sounded bitter. Only wistful.

"You think Antioch's quest is impossible. You don't think we will reach the other side of death."

"No. I don't think we will."

"Prophecies cannot be wrong."

"They can be misunderstood."

"Then what do we do?" Cadmus asked, and Ignotus could hear the sympathy in his voice.

"I will go to the halls of the Council. I will lay down words and ask them to be sealed by stone and rod. We have been clipped by the Interdict, but there will be a time when wizards will defeat those bonds. Merlin failed in that much, at least, just as they of Atlantis failed before him. There is ruin in the future, and so it must be that men will rise again."

"What will you lay down?"

"I will lay down the path of prophecy, and tell them to seek the '_scorpion and archer, locked beyond return.' _I will tell them that _'by this path shall death be defeated_.' " Ignotus' voice seemed to dim the flames, as though they were oppressed by the weight of the future yet to come. "And then I will come back here and we will return to work, together. And we will quarrel with your brother in the evenings, because he will insist on thestral hair even though it will not lie in warp with unicorn hair and other such foolishness, and you and he will fight and make up and fight and make up. And in time we will die. And the world will continue to lessen."

Cadmus rubbed his belly thoughtfully. "We will be together, though?"

"Yes. We will be together."

"Then everything will be all right."

"You know… I think it will."

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_September 3rd, 1941_

_4:00 p.m._

_Slytherin Boys' Dormitory, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland_

_Diary entry._

It's not that I can't win, but that I don't know how clever to be. My opponent is an unknown quantity… what level is he playing at? When he lays a trap for me, is it a simple trick, or is he lying in wait for me to make the obvious evasion? If I decline to address the trap out of caution, am I passing up a chance for swift and conclusive victory? If I devise strategies to bring him into the fold with subtlety and poisonous gambits, am I wasting time and effort on a simpleton who could be broken with only a moment's work? Imbecile or genius, marvel or moron?

I cannot abide chess, really. Why is it necessary? It is like a hall of mirrors, down which I see only my own reflection. Again and always, I am the only real player. It is monstrously boring. I know that this fellow will turn out to be another disappointment… easily conquered once understood. I do not know why I bother with the advertisement. I do not know why I bother with this game. I do not know why I bother

Boring boring boring Even boring to write about All all boring

As though I were crushing underfoot Sometimes some fun in it at the start, crackle crunch and all that, bright feathers and blood, aesthetic and visceral but no effort and no challenge Make a game of it Make art of it Do anything But it's just boring and boring I hate it

I need an opponent. Even at the risk of defeat, I want someone to match me. To strain and gamble and push myself against. Not this hill of ants that is this wretched globe. Someone with whom I wouldn't need to hold back or create a challenge. Someone to match with the fulness of my wits. Someone

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_March 12th, 1999_

_8:29 p.m._

_Franklin's Nez, Tidewater, Boston_

Hermione discussed what she knew about bombs with Hig and Tineagar for almost an hour. It was nothing that even cursory research wouldn't have revealed, but it would have been stupid not to take advantage of this opportunity to build more trust. She ignored her unsettled stomach and the whirl of her thoughts, and patiently explained the basics of chemical reactions.

The instant Hig and Tineagar left her alone with Charlevoix and Esther, though, Hermione turned to Charlevoix and said (_calmly, calmly, there are eyes and ears on us still_), "I was thinking about what you said before, and I think you were right. Would you please use the Knuts and call everyone to Powis, and then bring them all here? Use one of the spare portkeys."

Charlevoix showed no surprise, and did not protest that she'd never suggested any such thing. She simply nodded, and asked, "Everyone?"

"Everyone who isn't caring for the Göreme victims, I think," Hermione said. Without another word, Charlevoix obeyed. Before she'd even walked out of Franklin's Nez, she had her enchanted Knut in her hand and was squeezing it. Hermione felt the sister Knut in her pocket start to grow warm. Turning to Esther, she reached into her pocket and drew out a small mirror, handing it to the other witch. "Please contact Harry and ask him to get us whatever he's developed for the gauntlets. Securely, if he can."

Esther nodded and took the mirror, walking to one of the Pensieve alcoves for marginally better privacy. Hermione knew she could do it herself, but she couldn't face the prospect of talking to Harry.

She hoped she was wrong, and that this was all some terrible mistake or strange coincidence. That was still possible. No, it was probably even _likely_. What was more probable - that she had badly misunderstood some gambit or improbable chance, or that Harry was being evil?

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_March 12th, 1999_

_8:45 p.m._

_Alþing of the Mystical and Benevolent Council of Westphalia, Tidewater, Boston_

Hig leaned forward, squinting. This was clever. He usually played three or four games concurrently with different people, but this current correspondence game had all of his attention. His opponent was employing the Sicilian, but every move they'd made since fianchettoing their bishop had been an innovation, and the pawn storm was exhilerating. It was either crazy or brilliant - the game of someone with an unconventional mind. Hig could already see the flaws, of course… he was going to crush this dilettante without too much trouble. Let this opponent make any choice he wish, conventional or no: their wildness didn't matter when all roads led to Hig's desire.

He glanced at the level in the water clock. Not much time remained before he should return to work, although his dinner still sat untouched on his desk. So much to do, with the British in town and the bombing. Priorities, though… feeding his wits came first. Delightful!

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_March 12th, 1999_

_9:15 p.m._

_Franklin's Nez, Tidewater, Boston_

"Harry sent these, and said you and Esther knew how to use them," Tonks said, putting a double handful of small metal boxes on the table, each one perhaps the size of a die. The chargers for the gauntlets. "So what's up? I guess this is all hush-hush, but I thought this was supposed to be a pretty easy little jaunt for you out here - smile at the locals, wave your hands majestically, and all that. Harry was sitting in some new garden he's just had planted, and he wouldn't say what went wrong. Distracted by his new topiaries, I guess."

"It got complicated, and Harry doesn't know," Hermione said. "Well, he might have guessed," she added, "but I couldn't tell him anything."

"Did he do something stupid? I mean, besides growing that ponytail?" Tonks said, her eyes turning violet with delight at the possibility of intrigue.

"Maybe. Tell me if I'm going crazy," Hermione said, sighing. Tonks could be trusted in every way, and she would think independently about this. Not that the other Returned weren't also independent and intelligent, but they trusted Hermione with an absoluteness that brooked no disagreement about her moral or tactical decisions: they simply did not question her. When the group had formed, in those terrible months early in 1993, she had thought it was a coping mechanism - looking to their savior for some shred of certainty in an empty world. But enough time had passed… she knew that she was their lodestone, and that she always would be. Tonks was more normal, and not so awestruck, though she was still extraordinarily dedicated. She had joined the Returned as a pure volunteer, untouched by Dementors yet driven to a strange passionate hatred for the creatures that Hermione had only otherwise seen in Harry.

When she joined the Returned, Tonks had told Hermione that she'd visited the ruins of Azkaban in December, after Hermione had riven it to rubble, and she had taken the time to carefully spit in the ruins. Well, not spit, exactly.

"You're going crazy. But we already knew that when you turned Cedric down," Tonks said, leaning down enough to roll one of the chargers around with a click-click-click of metal on wood.

Hermione smiled, even as she reached down and carefully took the charger away before any accident could happen. "No, seriously."

Tonks sat in the chair across from Hermione, and raised her eyebrows. She waggled her wand, and together the two of them began to cast. Thirty seconds later, they were alone in a blue haze and presumably had at least some level of privacy. Unless the chairs were enchanted, but probably even Hig wouldn't have gone _that_ far in order to eavesdrop.

Hermione frowned.

Once they were both standing and the chairs were gone (_you're welcome, Alastor_), she sighed and began. After briefly relating some of the most important facts, she moved on to describing her conclusions. Her voice became a little more hesitant… she hoped Tonks would point out some huge and stupid flaw in her thinking.

"One of the first things I noticed when Charlevoix, Esther, and I went to look at the place of the bombing was that there was soot everywhere, but the rest of the mess had been cleaned up. It was pretty obvious that it had been _Scourgified_, but quickly - before the soot had settled from the explosion and before anyone was even allowed to investigate."

"So something valuable in there, then. Private letters?" Tonks asked, her eyebrows greening as they rose in a question.

Hermione shook her head. "Those are sent right to their recipient, just like at Hogwarts or the Ministry. No, this was a sorting room for the information they get from their spying networks. They have the Quotes Quills that make copies, the band memorabilia that listens to conversations, the stuffed griffon heads that report how often they hear specific words, and other things. That's a lot of parchment, and they need people to sort out the garbage from the useful information."

Tonks made a face. "Wonder what they have of mine."

"Anyway, I also saw a big pot of Floo powder on top of one of the fireplaces in there. That is pretty normal in a lot of places, but not somewhere with a pair of Flounders."

"They're probably bugged, too."

"Hm… I hadn't thought of that," Hermione said, pausing. She thought for a moment. "But if they were, I'm not sure it changes my thinking. Anyway, I wasn't sure if that was just because someone was using the Floo after the bombing, so I managed to get them to show me a memory from one of the two sisters who were there first… Cynthia or Sybil Vane, not sure which one."

"Are they important? Is there a clue there?" Tonks asked.

"Just bystanders, I think. Maybe they'll provide a clue in the end, but they don't seem involved right now, at least," Hermione said.

"So you think someone Flooed out after the explosion, leaving the pot of powder behind - since you can't take Floo powder through the fire - which means… someone was stealing something, or escaping, or covering up a personal murder, or something," Tonks said.

"Well, Councilor Tineagar asked me to think about who benefits from this. She was implying that _we _benefit, since some in America are going to move towards us as a way to posture against the Malfoys. I wasn't sure that Magical America would be so quick to lose their head over a single act of terrorism, but Tineagar did have a point."

"But we _didn't_ do it," Tonks said. "So was it the Westphalians? Did they bomb themselves? They didn't really lose anything or anyone important, did they? And I bet they're ruthless enough to sacrifice one of their own for this. Or was it just Narcissa Malfoy starting some new phase… remember we almost got blown up not too long ago!" Tonks threw up her hands, exasperated. "Who even knows?! This is crazy!"

"Well, wait," Hermione said. "It could definitely just be a blunder or miscalculation, or something gone wrong. But-"

"Maybe the Malfoys wanted to destroy something that was intercepted!" Tonks interrupted, as the idea struck her. "A spy-center… a conversation that was overheard, revealing their plans? No, this guy who was killed wasn't the final destination for that stuff, right… you said he'd been there only two years. And he wouldn't be the only one doing this… no, that doesn't make sense, sorry. But maybe this interrupted the spying?"

Hermione shook her head. "I doubt it. If you were managing their network, wouldn't an attack on one of your employees be exactly the sort of thing for which you'd plan? I bet they had things in place, and didn't miss a step. Councilor Hig is short-sighted about a lot of things-" _Like even the most rudimentary sense of ethics in pursuit of his goals. _"-but he's serious about information."

"So what, then?" Tonks said, a trifle impatiently.

"First of all, I think someone was sending parchments _out_ of that room. That's why the pot of Floo powder was there: so someone could pass documents. You can't do that with a Floo Flounder. Things they wanted, or that they didn't want anyone else to know. So one possibility is that Tarleton was doing this, and whoever controlled him wanted to get rid of him. He could have been blackmailed, or he could have been a plant from the start."

Tonks nodded, slowly. "Okay... That does make sense. And that could have been either one of the Westphalians or the Malfoys doing that."

"Tineagar mentioned that she thought this seemed sloppy for a Malfoy. That's true, and it's something to take into consideration. Bombs are messy and uncertain, and if Tarleton had lived or someone else had opened it or it had gone off early or anything else, it would have left Narcissa and Draco's intentions exposed."

"The Westphalians, then." Tonks' eyes flashed red. "Then they blame it on us, by making it an obvious sham?" She paused a moment. "No… all of the same problems. Plus, there's no one but the Malfoys who have ever used Muggle devices like a bomb."

"There's one other person famous for such tricks," Hermione said, heavily.

Tonk's expression told the story of her thoughts. A moment of puzzlement, her full lips pursing. Then her eyes widened a bit, and her brow knit. And as she calmed and started to think about the prospect, her face relaxed and her complexion went peaches-and-cream.

"No," Tonks said, after a while. "I see your thinking, but no. Harry would never just kill someone like that. And it would be too obvious… he's been ranting about 'owling a hand grenade' for years as his metaphor for blatant security holes… remember when Mad-Eye shouted at him to stop publicizing the possibility? To wrap up the attack he's _known_ to have conceived in the colors of his _public_ _enemy_ and strike at the organization that _stood in the way_ of the Statute? It's like a big sign reading, 'Harry did this.' "

"Level and levels," Hermione said. Nothing more seemed necessary; after a moment, Tonks gave a single short nod of her head in acknowledgment of the point.

"But the murder? Even if Tarleton was Dark in some way, I just can't see this. I saw Harry give instructions to some of the staff in Material Methods once, and he told them that the first rule, above all, was that no enemy could die - that a ten percent chance of death was still too high, since it meant that a weapon would kill one out of every ten people." She gestured at the chargers. "The gauntlets were all developed that way! And remember early on, in the first Tower, when we were developing the Safety Poles, and Harry told that auror, whatshername, J.C. Kraeme, our saying? 'Save one life, and it is as though you have saved the whole world?' That was _his _thought!"

Tonks crossed her arms, and shook her head, hair streaking with black. "I'm glad you called me here, because you're right… you _are_ being crazy."

Hermione thought for a moment about how to phrase her response. Even with Tonks, information hygiene: there was only so much she should say. "Tonks, the spells Harry and I laid over the Tower-"

Tonks was already covering her ears. "Oh Merlin, don't tell me about them, I'll want to try it and I'll turn myself into a pudding or something!"

"No, no," Hermione said, smiling again despite everything, and putting her hand on Tonks' arm. "I'm not going to tell you any dreadful transfiguration secrets. But I can safely say that the spells would allow Harry to perfectly fake a corpse, the same way he perfectly heals people."

"Oh," Tonks said, calming somewhat. She'd probably been thinking of the hoary old tale of warning that so many magical parents told their children, to drum into them how dangerous it could be to innovate or to imitate those who were cleverer than yourself: Rochelle the Ravenclaw, who tried to turn her cat into a dragon, and ended up turning herself into a troll ("Oh Kitty Kitty you are smaller yet, but oh Kitty Kitty you look so tasty!").

"That makes sense," she said. "Well then, o Goddess, what do we do?"

Hermione ignored the nickname, since she knew Tonks would just use it more if she protested. "Well, we have a few possible theories, and we're not sure which one is correct. So we need to eliminate them. Investigate. Experiment. We send some people to check out Tarleton's background, as best we can, and see if he was just an actor all along or if he started behaving oddly. We send some people to look into the friend who was hired at the same time as him, if possible. And whatever else we think of, that we can safely do. I'll speak to the Westphalians - these inquiries make sense if we really do think it's Malfoy, and I think I can sell that."

"Got it," Tonks said, nodding. "Esther will go with you. Simon and Charlevoix will look into Tarleton. Susie and Hyori will check out the friend. Jessie is taking care of a couple of the Cappadocians, and Urg wasn't able to come."

"And you?" Hermione asked.

"I think there are a few things I can do to help everyone." Tonks said, and grinned toothily. But before dropping the wards and spells around them, she paused with a doubt, and her grin faded. "But what if someone just left that pot of Floo powder sitting on the mantel, just… by accident? Like maybe it was just a coincidence? What if this is less complicated than we think, with all these deductions and guesses all in a flurry?" Tonks asked. "Or even worse, what if it was Harry… do you really want to push this investigation so hard that you, um, _win_? And have to face him?"

Hermione sighed. "We're investigating our friend's possible involvement in a bombing, or maybe even two bombings. What investigation needs dedication more? I'd like 'losing.' "


	9. Boxes

_And what are you saying, when you take your parents or grandparents to be "restored" or "rejuvenated," or whatever euphemism we are using this week? You are saying this:_

"_Grandmother, come here. You are old and show your wisdom on your face, and that is not allowed. You have scars from your battles, and they are not allowed. You have rough edges and a special crinkle at the corner of your eyes, and they are not allowed. You disagree with the Tower and the tyrants who control us, and that is not allowed. Come here, so that we can make you into one of the dolls. We will change your face. We will change your eyes. We will change your mind."_

_And when "grandmother" comes back to you, she will be changed indeed! She will be young and new... and she will be ready to swear fealty to the House of Potter._

_No one knows what really happens when you send someone to the Tower, but there are dark whispers of the real truth. We are fed obvious lies about a new form of magic and an impregnable clinic and happy, bouncing babies restored to their mother's breast. But snap that stick and all we _know_ is that you are made unconscious and _obliviated_, and they send someone home who is different in ways both large and small. No matter why they go - "rejuvenation," spattergroit, or a broken bone: they come back _different_. They don't remember some special memories that you'd shared; they have different habits and mannerisms; you catch them with odd looks on their face._

_Is the Tower changing people to suit himself, or are the people of Britain being replaced with some new creation? Only the Tower can say, but his grip is tightening over the country and magical peoples everywhere._

Excerpt from "Stop the Changes," by Draco Malfoy

_Unbreakable Honour_

Vol 4 (1999), Issue 7

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

"This lovely has the Pentium III processor, brand new to us this month. Five hundred megahertz of processing power in here. That's going to do just about anything you could want, especially if you have cable or DSL in here. And it's bloody cheap - just 1,500 pounds. Usually for a processor this top of the line, we'd be talking two thousand or more on top of the cost of the rest of the PC. The video quality on this is amazing, and so are the graphics on your games." Troy patted the cardboard box, fondly. He knew what this guy wanted out of a computer… the same thing all of these blokes wanted out of a computer, suddenly. They saw on the nightly news about the evil of the World Wide Web, and they wanted a piece of it.

Mr. Spoo squinted at the specifications on the side of the box. Troy could see that the young man had been on a bit of a spending spree. There were similar sorts of boxes stacked everywhere, labeled variously as: STUART AC/4232, Fisher SENTRON ARGUS , HONDA EB3000C, and many others. An odd assortment of things, some of which Troy had never even heard. He did recognise the generators and portable breaker boxes, since the sides of their containers had little diagrams and descriptions. He even knew what the Netwell Foam was - soundproofing melamine, like his mate Sammy had in the studio. But he couldn't even guess what an "ILX Lightwave TD6000" was. What kind of lab was this place?

More than a dozen serious-looking men and women were going around the dozens of boxes, checking things off lists, and having hushed conversations. A blonde woman was supervising the process, when she wasn't staring absently at the wall. But it seemed like they were in some strange castle, all solid grey stone and flickering mounted lights - wait, were those shrouded _torches_? - and why would you ever want to set up a lab here? Was it some military thing with the SAS or something? Funny, he couldn't actually recall the route they took to get here…

"Looks good," Mr. Spoo said, jerking Troy's attention back to the young man, who had quite a distinctive scar on his forehead. "Do you have twenty in stock? With peripherals?"

Troy smiled widely. "I can do. And free delivery, as well, if you'd like."

Mr. Spoo shook his head. "No, thank you though. Our lab here is a high-security facility. We'll pick them up from you. Do you need a cheque on deposit?"

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

Harry was trying to put the situation with Hermione out of his mind, since he'd already decided that he was not going to be able to force this thoughts into any sort of useful pattern. Something about the Vow made it too easy for his mind to start moving in circles when it came to her, and he would find himself obsessively thinking the same few things over and over. It was like when he'd had those internal dialogues with mental models of different personalities, and he'd go around and around the same topic, wittily arguing with himself. In a situation like this, he'd already considered his options and made his decision, and further dwelling on it was an unhealthy choice unless he got new information.

To help him take his mind off it, he was planning the next phase of his fortress. Even better, he was planning where to put the _computer_. He was already elbow-deep into the box, pulling out the manuals and papers that were packed with it like hors d'oeuvres. He'd read every scrap of paper, soon enough. Because finally, finally, finally: electricity!

Harry had struggled with understanding the way magic interfered with electricity, right from the start. The presence of any spell or ward carried with it a variety of electromagnetic effects: visible light, radio waves, and even hard radiation. There didn't seem to be any discernable pattern to the wavelength produced by an effect - _mobiliarbus _produced a burst of microwave radiation, while the seemingly similar _mobilicorpus _produced a steady pulse of low-frequency radio.

There might be some uniting schema behind the phenomenon, but research had been slow. At first, he'd set up separate labs in Aberdeen to try to measure and record data, but the logistics were frustrating. The labs had to be designed with almost no warding, since spells cast over an area released a continuous diffuse interference - no amount of RF shielding or Faraday caging could help. But personnel with even the limited combination of scientific and magical knowledge necessary for the work were few at that time, and even fewer were trustworthy and powerful enough to operate without protective wards. Harry had to prioritize.

Once Lovegood had joined the steady stream of students in the Hogwarts' Science Program, he'd been able to delegate to her. She'd easily absorbed the two-year course of magical study that Harry and Minerva had put in place, and had moved on to the two years of scientific method and rationality with astonishing ability. Her upbringing probably had much to do with that skill: she'd been raised to be open to every new idea, even the outlandish ones. Much of science is the willingness to follow the data wherever it goes, and Lovegood had no attachment to convention.

Her fearlessness had been invaluable to Harry, since she happily agreed to one particular tack he'd suggested: an investigation into Devil's Snare and how it lived without sunlight. Many witches and wizards would have hesitated before working with the dangerous plant, but Lovegood had just absently agreed.

Much of the lifecycle of Devil's Snare made sense. It instinctively moved to snare and strangle anything that came into its reach, animated by a series of tough fibres running through each tendril that had supernatural powers of motion. After it had strangled or crushed its prey - typically small animals or larger insects - it dropped them. The corpses decomposed to provide valuable nutrients that the Snare needed in abundance.

The thing that didn't make sense, though, was that it was a leafy plant that _hated light_! Leaves were often adapted by nature into traps or weapons or protection, but there didn't seem to be any reason at all for a plant that primarily grew in caves to have leaves.

Harry had made two guesses: first of all, that the leaves must gather something, if not light. Otherwise the most successful Devil's Snare would be the varieties that had few or no leaves, and evolution would have already eliminated them. Secondly, since Devil's Snare lived almost exclusively in magical gardens or magical areas like the caves in the Forbidden Forest, it must require ambient magic to survive.

It had taken Lovegood only a year to demonstrate Devil's Snare's powers of absorption, and only two years of magically-enhanced breeding before she and her team in the Hall of Science had produced a variant that was motionless and had a voracious appetite for background magical energy.

Devil's Snare had replaced photosynthesis with thaumosynthesis. It ate magic, perhaps the same way chizpurfles did, and a dense mass of the plant would finally allow for the possibility of shielding electronics from ambient magics and their electromagnetic havoc.

And that meant that Harry could finally build the lab of his dreams. Shell corporations under his control made dozens and dozens of purchases - everything he couldn't Transfigure - and he spent hours on the wonderful tricky problems entailed in dovetailing magic and technology. Designing the Tower had been delightful from the beginning, when he'd sat down with a pencil and graph paper to replace the ruins left by his own folly. It was like being a boy of six again, creating the layout for his "dream lab" (no, Ms. Blaire, I will _not_ design a "dream treehouse," thank you very much).

Harry already had almost everything in place. Soundproofing panels on wooden supports helped support and protect the thick mass of "Lovegood Leaf" (as he was calling the modified Devil's Snare) around the walls and ceiling of the long Pairing Partnership room. More Lovegood Leaf was under his feet, separated by corrugated metal, and the doors fitting into the entryways were backed with trellises, thick with plant matter. Magical air-conditioning units, buried in the walls and surrounded by their own masses of vines, vented fresh and cool air throughout the room, which would otherwise be musty with the smell of the Leaf.

The overall effect was a little unsettling, since even the modified Devil's Snare still occasionally twitched and rustled on the door trellises, but it was mostly insulated and sealed out of sight. Once every few weeks, they'd have to turn everything off and _Scourgify_ away leaf litter from behind paneling, but Harry was very proud, nonetheless.

And a _computer!_

Before Harry had first gone off to Hogwarts - that is, the last time he had lived with his parents - his father had kept a computer in the study. It was something to be treated Seriously because it was a Considerable Responsibility, but Harry had spent some happy hours using the cutting-edge Windows 3.0 and even playing around with the more exciting commands of MS-DOS, the command-line which seemed to have a dangerous and sweeping finality to it.

Since then… well, there had been magic. Events had gotten out of control with a greater swiftness than even Harry could have imagined, and as it turned out, he'd left his Muggle life forever one morning at a London train station. He'd promised Mum that he'd never let magic come between them, that day… but it had. That hadn't been an unbreakable promise. It should have been, if there were any mercy in the world. But it hadn't been.

After a while, Harry realized that he'd stopped unpacking the computer, and that he was ignoring the gray plastic-and-metal device nestled within the cardboard. The manuals and warranties sat in a pile on the desk, unread. The joy had gone out of it, suddenly.

He sat back into the chair, sighing. This was unfair. It was childish and stupid to think that, but his brain had that silly inbuilt programming that demanded equal treatment relative to his peers. It even applied those demands to an impersonal fate. It had not been fair that he'd had to shut his parents out of his life, but life wasn't fair.

Harry needed to talk to someone intelligent. Not Hermione, and he'd already given Moody a new face and body only this morning, so Harry wouldn't see him until tomorrow (although Moody was a six-year-old girl this time, so Harry wasn't exactly sure about the appropriate pronoun).

At length, he finally sighed and rose to his feet, and went off to Room 101. He'd been spending more and more of his free time there, lately, even though that time had been getting shorter and shorter with the increasing numbers of the French using their new Safety Poles. And since the British goblins had agreed to put one in Ackle, too, he was soon going to be even busier.

But he really did need to talk sometimes, and there were occasions when he needed the advice of someone who was completely brilliant and utterly without scruples.

Voldemort might be a monster, but he was a valuable one. And a tame one.

Getting into Room 101 was not easy, especially since Harry hadn't been able to get any help in setting up the security system. Even though Hermione and Amelia knew about it, Harry had been insistent on setting up the protocols himself, without benefit of Hermione's brilliance or Amelia's staggering depth of magical knowledge. In theory, they probably would have agreed to be Obliviated afterwards… but Harry had shied away from the prospect of erasing any parts of their memories. He was sure there were some clever tricks that they could have devised to eliminate the more tedious aspects of his security precautions.

As it was, it took about ten minutes to get inside, including five minutes of simply sitting still and waiting. But eventually, he stepped through the portal into Room 101, ducking to pass through the simple and unadorned golden oval. Then he walked down the stairs, into the small stone room that held only two small wooden stools and a shiny black box.

It always surprised Harry, looking back with hindsight, just how stupid he had been. There had been a time when he'd thought it was a _good long-term plan_ to keep Voldemort Transfigured into a stone on his ring. Even now, the stupidity of his thirteen-year-old self boggled the mind. Eventually, Moody and Amelia and he had gotten together and concluded that it was just not a good plan to keep the most dangerous Dark Lord of all time in temporary stasis right next to his mortal enemy _and _the most powerful magical devices of their knowledge. Apparent Obliviation, Transfiguration sickness, and missing hands were all well and good, but it was just a foolish risk when they had such incomplete knowledge of the villain's plans and failsafes (all accomplices being dead or vanished). One bad afternoon might have meant the end of the world.

Even their second system had turned out to have a single unexpected flaw, and it had almost meant disaster. Only the barest of chances had kept Voldemort from escaping, clad in a new body. Walpurgisnacht.

Thus: the box and Room 101 and the new Tower. The best fortress and best prison that Harry and Moody could design. It was, as far as Harry knew, the most secure location conceivable.

Harry sat down on one stool, looking at the box. He still couldn't decide if it was stupid to store valuables in an obviously fancy box, or if it served as an important warning and double-bluff. Regardless, the box was impressive. Its sides were a shiny and sheer black, but every so often a shudder of russet-red would flicker in an intricate tracery across the flat planes of its sides, fading in the blink of an eye. The lock was heavy and ornate, with a circular indentation instead of a keyhole.

The box had no name, as far as Harry was aware, and it was a physical symbol of the insanity of trying to govern magical Britain.

He had asked for assistance from Amelia - he said he needed a way to safely store something that could not, under any circumstances, be stolen. She had gone to work on his behalf, and produced a solution in only a few days.

That solution had been annoying beyond belief, though, because apparently some of the Unspeakables had just disappeared into a vault in the Department of Magical Mysteries, and returned with this unbreachable magic box.

Everyone involved had patiently endured Harry's angry fit, as he lectured them:

about how it was impossible to plan security if there were secret loopholes in every passage;

about how he couldn't make optimal decisions if there were magical items of incredible power that no one had bothered to tell him about;

and about how it was insane for things to be so convenient that there just happened to be a device that fit his needs at the moment.

Anyone who had spent more than a day around Harry had gotten used to the occasional lecture.

Hermione had finally reminded Harry, in her own kind way:

that secure planning meant knowing your knowledge was imperfect;

that there was never going to be any useful list of all powerful magics because that list would be astonishingly dangerous;

and that the universe was not always as convenient as a story, but _sometimes _it was.

Anyone who had spent more than a day around Harry was profoundly grateful for Hermione's presence.

Voldemort was returned to his human form, _Stupefied_ a few dozen times (with Moody casting a ceaseless stream of more-inventive and debilitating curses), and then his consciousness was transferred neatly into the soft fibrous tissues of several Turkmenian Mandrakes. Surprisingly, transferring a wizard's mind into a plant operated on well-established "Dark" magical principles of golem-creation or imprisonment, and Harry was actually able to just look most of the procedure up in different books he'd requisitioned.

Then it was into the box, and Harry took that alone into Room 101.

"Boy, you are a fool."

Harry's mind immediately returned to the present. The voice was familiar, in a painful way. Harry had been gradually growing used to it, as they talked for long hours, but it was still hard to hear. Not the actual voice itself, which was an undifferentiated male one of no particular import. But the tone…

Curt. Cold. And… well, not confident, exactly. Instead, there was an icy and thoughtful certainty behind the words that made confidence seem like the emotion of a lesser being. That tone didn't evoke a hateful enemy that might cut your throat: it was the indifferent knife in the enemy's hand, to which your blood had no meaning at all.

"You're getting your memories back, Professor," Harry said. He'd noticed small hints in their last conversation… troubled pauses and halting answers as they discussed the potential political moves in the Sawad. He honestly wasn't sure how he should feel about the development. He'd known it was possible, with the twin changes of a Horcrux 2.0 resurrection and a transfer into a lump of plant matter. And it made Voldemort much more valuable. They'd had many long discussions, and he'd enjoyed having someone with whom to discuss his plans and designs, during those frequent times when Hermione was busy out in the world. And while even a Voldemort almost bereft of personal memories was still brilliant and inventive, a Voldemort with the experience of age and the lore of Salazar Slytherin was an infinitely better resource.

And infinitely more dangerous.

"Last week," came the voice from the box. Possibly a lie.

There was a long pause, then the voice came again, asking cooly, "The Ritual of the Sibyl?"

"Yes, Professor," Harry said. Their voices sounded loud in the small stone room. "I was not lying before. I am sorry… truly sorry… that things had to end up this way. But I will not let you out, even now. _Especially_ now."

"Boy… you think me your enemy. You think you have won, and that I am your pet monster, kept in your pocket, and that you have defeated the whole of my designs." The contempt was palpable, and it hinted at the subtlety that had laid plans within plans within plans.

It had been years, and Harry could no longer be really called a "boy." But the epithet was meant to diminish him, not describe him… and perhaps Voldemort was having difficulty truly understanding the passage of time. There hadn't appeared to be any cognitive impairment, but Harry's tests had been crude.

"Tell me how that is wrong, Professor… tell me how I have been stupid." Harry leaned forward on the stool, resting his elbows on his knees. "Because as near as I can tell, you are in a box, while I am saving the world. Ultimately, intelligence means _winning_, and I have won."

"Have you, now?" Harry could hear extraordinary bitterness in Voldemort's tone. Hm, what were the constraints on the sounds a magical artificial voice could produce, with no physical limitations like diaphragm or larynx? Harry would have to check and ensure that it stayed within a certain decibel level to prevent both subliminal messages and auditory attack. Constant vigilance.

"You think so much of your achievements, in these past few years?" Voldemort said. "I remember everything you told me, when my mind was dim and shrouded, when I was new to my prison here. I know your position, and I am _oh so aware_ of my own. But know this: but for a single stroke of intelligence at the cusp of matters, one graveyard night, all has gone according to my will. I have shaped you, prepared all things, and set every event in motion." Though deprived of the power of Parseltongue in this form, Voldemort nonetheless practically hissed in spite. "I told you as much, told you exactly what I would do - told you how you would be brought to power. _This is not a story_, and can you possibly think that events have come to resemble my proposed plan in every detail by _purest chance?_ You are a fool, and you never would think more than two steps ahead."

Voldemort was nothing more than a voice from a box, but the Dark Lord used every ounce of wit and acid that he had, and his bitter words were thick with derision at Harry's ingratitude. "You still think me your enemy, even though you sit on the throne I built."

_Seriously?_

Harry raised his eyebrows in mild surprise. He frowned, and shook his head. "Professor, you can't really think I'm this stupid. You can't goad me into forgetting the graveyard, or Hermione's death. What, will you pretend that you intended events to turn out this way? That you were just testing me, and in the end you would have relented? Or will you try to convince me that this your plan, all along - to be stuffed into a plant in a box?"

"Potter, prophecy spoke of _you_ as the one who might end the world." Ice and bile in the voice, and disappointment. "All of my ends have been directed at preventing that. No plan or goal matters beyond it - _could _matter beyond it. It seems I may have failed. But if I am to fail, I cannot accept that my brightest student is still so stupid that he cannot see the plain truth even after it has been _told to him! _Think about what would have happened, had you not interfered. Remember what I once told you, from a hospital bed."

Harry remembered the moment well. After the trip to Azkaban. After he had first begun to doubt, and had demanded an explanation. His beloved professor had explained to him a plan to seek power: _"You are kidnapped from Hogwartss to public location, many witnesssess, wardss keep out protectorss. Dark Lord announcess that he hass at long lasst regained physical form, after wandering as sspirit for yearss; ssayss that he hass gained sstill greater power, not even you can sstop him now. Offerss to let you duel. You casst guardian Charm, Dark Lord laughss at you, ssayss he iss not life-eater. Casstss Killing Cursse at you, you block, watcherss ssee Dark Lord explode -"_

"And you thought," Harry said, now openly mocking, "that I would think Hermione's life was an acceptable sacrifice. You with your notoriously poor judgment of people. No, of course not… you had planned all along to bring her back to life in that graveyard, just stripped of her magic. Or will you claim that you knew that I would be able to grant her true resurrection, somehow?" His voice rose in contempt, now. Had he been so stupid, as a boy, to be fooled by this? Was it simply the power differential that had made Voldemort so convincing?

If this conversation had occurred under different circumstances, this would be the moment when "Professor Quirrell" would have done some extremely impressive bit of magic, or brought the weight of his authority and the respect Harry held for him to bear in some other way. How often had the clever Professor brushed off requests for explanation or guidance with a skillful bluff? It seemed so transparent, now.

There was a very long, quiet moment. Harry rose to his feet and turned away from the box. How sad and small and _stupid_ this all seemed. There was a time when he could have wept at the betrayal he'd endured, but now he just wanted to reach back in time and _slap _his past self for being so short-sighted.

Voldemort had wanted to prevent the prophesied end of the world, Harry knew. That had been his most important goal. But he had also wanted a companion. Even after the events of Godric's Hollow, when the Dark Lord's hubris had almost been his undoing, he continued to feel that need and to harbor the idea that any real companion would need to be forged by fire into a truly _worthy_ adversary and ally. Voldemort desired an equal, uncompromised by any ethical nonsense.

So he had put Harry into the crucible. Classes, mentoring, wargames, and death. Voldemort had put fire to Harry until the boy glowed with rage and pain, and had worked to give him a new form with careful and cool hammer blows. To Voldemort, ethics were dross. He had wished to burn them out.

The journey to Azkaban had not only freed Bellatrix, but also tested Harry. Actually freeing someone from Azkaban would never have required Harry's Patronus or the absurd risks they underwent that night - that was just a convenient excuse that allowed Voldemort to put the boy in the forge.

If you really had wanted to free someone from Azkaban, after all, you wouldn't risk yourself. You just used the Cruciatus Curse on an auror at his home to find out which Azkaban guards were corrupt, wiped the memory of your source, and then held the family of one of the corrupt aurors for prisoner and demanded a Death Doll be exchanged with one of the prisoners. Voldemort had probably done it repeatedly, over the years.

But Harry had failed that test. He'd valued an auror's life - not just intellectually, but on such an instinctual level that his Patronus had stepped in front of a Killing Curse. So Voldemort had murdered Hermione, to push the boy beyond his limits.

Voldemort had smuggled in a monster, disabled every device and craft, and arranged matters in such a way that Harry would fail to save Hermione, but would come close enough _to blame himself_. Indeed, there was every reason to think that Harry had also been intended to fail in that combat, and that "Professor Quirrell" would arrive in a blaze of cursed fire just in time to save the boy - and just too late to save the boy's dearest friend.

Harry turned back to Voldemort, now, and spat a question, "Professor, now that all your plans are exposed and open to me, tell me: when exactly did you decide that I was no longer worthwhile? You became oh-so-terribly sick in June of that year - was it then? Or was it after you had to stop a centaur from murdering me - was that when I became too great a risk?"

The Boy-Who-Lived, who had torn possibility to pieces to snatch back his friend from death, who was now the Tower, who bestrode the narrow world like a colossus, glared at a shiny black box, and his eyes burned with a betrayal that seemed undiminished by the years.

"Or was it, as I suspect, when we spoke in the forest one night after you murdered Hermione, and you discovered that I had not _learned the proper lesson_ you wished to teach me? When you learned that I still held human life as a positive good in my utility function?"

_"If it were you who had been killed by that troll, it would not even occur to Hermione Granger to do as you are doing for her! It would not occur to Draco Malfoy, nor to Neville Longbottom, nor to McGonagall or any of your precious friends! There is not one person in this world who would return to you the care that you are showing her! So why? Why do it, Mr. Potter?" There was a strange, wild desperation in that voice. "Why be the only one in the world who goes to such lengths to keep up the pretense, when none of them will ever do the same for you?"_

And there was still silence for a while yet. After long moments, Voldemort spoke again.

"You are right." There was a long pause, and then a repetition… as though in astonishment. "You… are right."

Harry blinked.

"I do value the world, and I did fear you… feared what I had created. I do not pretend to care about human life for its own sake, since almost all of these loathsome idiots have no purpose or worth to their mewling lives. Nor do I pretend to care about Ms. Granger, who has the same inane affection for fools that you retain despite my best efforts. As though human life, of itself, is somehow an inherent good... as though we were children in a moralist's tale!" Somehow, entirely without any physicality, the words evoked contemptuous spittle. "But I do not apologize for seeking to preserve this world as a whole, even though it would seem I am yet at your mercy, boy. Remember the Vow you swore on my compulsion - no Vow to serve me or my interests, though that was within my power to demand."

"Is this where you repent, and seek redemption? Where I release you, as long as you take a Vow of my own design?" Harry asked. He honestly was amused, and rather incredulous.

"No, Potter," said Voldemort scornfully. A brief pattern of red light flickered across the surface of the box, and was gone. "You have locked me back in hell, and you have left me my mind, and I expect you know the consequences of those actions."

"Indeed, Professor. You are a threat… to me and to the whole world. I could not release you, even if I wished it. And I do not wish it." Harry rose from his seat, and walked away. This had not been the intelligent conversation he'd sought, but it had certainly been distracting enough. He had a computer to set up, though. "I'll be back in a few days."

"Potter!" The outcry was sharp, and had an edge of wildness to it.

"Yes, Professor?"

Silence.

"Professor, I know that this is torture for you. I'm working on a way to get you some entertainment… something to listen to and think about. I do not want anyone to suffer… not even you."

Still silence.

Eventually, Harry mounted the stairs, and left.


	10. What Is Beautiful Is Good

_Suppose a person to make all kinds of figures of gold and to be always remodeling each form into all the rest; somebody points to one of them and asks what it is._

_By far the safest and truest answer is, 'That is gold,' and not to call the triangle or any other figures which are formed in the gold 'these things,' as though they had existence, since they are in process of change while he is making the assertion, but if the questioner be willing to take the safe and indefinite expression, 'such stuff,' we should be satisfied._

_And the same argument applies to the universal nature which receives all bodies-that must be always called the same, for, inasmuch as she always receives all things, she never departs at all from her own nature and never, in any way or at any time, assumes a form like that of any of the things which enter into her; she is the natural recipient of all impressions, and is stirred and informed by them, and appears different from time to time by reason of them._

_But the forms which enter into and go out of her are the likenesses of eternal realities modeled after their patterns in a wonderful and mysterious manner, which we will hereafter investigate._

_For the present we have only to conceive of three natures: first, that which is in process of generation; secondly, that in which the generation takes place; and thirdly, that of which the thing generated is a resemblance naturally produced._

-Plato, _Timaeus_

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

**Notice of Alterations in Practical Enforcement of the Guidelines for the Treatment of Non-Wizard Part-Humans in the Environs of Magical Britain**

_Ministry of Magic_

_September 2nd, 1994_

This notice is to inform the public that the duly elected Government of Magical Britain has determined that all Veela, Centaurs, Merfolk, Goblins, Vampires, Hags, and Elves (hereafter Non-Violent Beings) within the environs of Magical Britain shall henceforth be held responsible for both the spirit and the letter of the Guidelines for the Treatment of Non-Wizard Part-Humans, as established by Minister Muldoon and revised by Minister Stump. These Guidelines state without qualification that Beings have "sufficient intelligence to understand the laws of the magical community," and specifies that they shall "bear part of the responsibility in shaping those laws." Non-Violent Beings shall henceforth be given opportunity to fulfill this duty.

Accordingly, measures will soon be taken by the Being Department, formerly a division of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, to liaise with representatives of different Being communities within the boundaries of Britain and begin the process of establishing formal guidelines as to the governance of those communities, and the procedures by which they will be represented by Tribunes of the Wizengamot. Inquiries regarding this process should be directed to the Being Division at the Ministry of Magic. Inquiries regarding the rights and responsibilities of a Tribune may be answered by reference to the Suffrage Decree of 1993 (Three Hundred and Twenty-Eighth Session); further inquiries should be directed to the office of the Chief Warlock at the Ministry of Magic. Every attempt will be made to contact every sizeable grouping of the designated Non-Violent Beings and establish some system by which the franchise may be extended to them in an orderly manner.

Public postings of this notice shall be on display in the following locations: the Ministry of Magic, Diagon Alley, Knockturn Alley, Hogsmeade, Godric's Hollow, Ackle and Curd, the Hogwarts kitchens and all Noble House manors, the Nutcombe Society, and the Salor Sprig in the Forbidden Forest of Hogwarts.

Chatterlings with readings of this notice will be posted in the Black Lake and Loch Lomond.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_March 13th, 1999_

_A small trunk, Tidewater, Boston_

Now we find ourselves in a curious space, somewhere in the magical suburb of Boston known as Tidewater. This place is a small room with wooden paneling, warmly lit by smokeless candles. A large wooden table dominates the room, along with the chairs that surround it. A half-dozen gadgets sit in the center of the table: those wonderful but unreliable Dark Detectors. A trio of oval mirrors, mounted irregularly and filled with the indistinct faces of baleful foes. A brightly-painted red-and-white top, trembling in place every few moments. A mouthful of teeth, yellowed with age, set in a neat row on a metal stand. There's even a rare and unusual Aeolian Warp, a wooden sphere which made a constant but nearly inaudible whistle, powered by the presence of nearby life. Dark Detectors can be fooled, but it takes some trouble. There's no good reason not to have them around.

With the amount of warding on this small room, one would honestly expect some sort of change in the atmosphere. But there is no hum of power or staleness to the air - no goosebumps on your arm. To the mundane observer, there is nothing to show that every inch of this room is thick with wards to prevent eavesdropping or intrusion.

Perhaps we should say a word about this room, the Mobile Mary.

Now, it has to be admitted that Harry James Potter-Evans-Verres has many clever ideas. We might not say it in front of him, since it would be awkward, but he is an ocean away: we can safely praise him without risking an uncomfortable silence. Even if Harry had spent his life in the Muggle world, it seems certain that his erudition, creativity, unorthodox approaches, and critical thinking would have led to some considerable accomplishments and innovative notions. But in addition to his native ability and the intellectual powers carved into him by a certain Dark Lord, Harry has also been able to wield the might of a whole worldwide Muggle civilization. So he has many clever ideas.

Not all of his ideas work, and not all of his scoffing is well-founded. For every instance in which he has thought to put a protective covering around a Time-Turner, there has been another occasion on which he went crashing full-tilt into Chesterton's Fence - so to speak - and looked quite silly. Chesterton's Fence is a useful principle suggesting that if you do not understand the purpose of something that seems useless or wrong or insane, you should probably take the time to find out the intentions behind it. It is unlikely that the thing in question happened by chance, after all. Harry has a hard time with this principle.

There are spells which create insects or birds or snakes, for example. And there are other spells which duplicate anything they touch at a frenetic rate. So why not, young Harry asked in his second year, combine these two principles to make a shield of living and expanding life to block the Killing Curse? _Avada Kedavra _cannot be blocked, but it does stop when it hits anything with a brain (tests are ongoing about how many ganglia are needed before a creature counts as having a "brain," but progress is slow: it's hard to hate fruit flies). So block the unblockable curse with a shield of tiny brains!

But of course, this doesn't work, because conjured creatures do not count as living for any magical purpose. And after Madame Bones and the hulking blonde woman named Alastor Moody had stopped laughing, they explained that neither they nor their predecessors in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement were quite so stupid as to miss that one. In fact, almost a hundred years ago the DMLE had devoted the efforts of a dozen aurors to trying to Transfigure living brain tissue as a shield; far more practical and in line with dueling tactics than a shield-swarm of birds, but it didn't work, either. Abandoned in 1930. So: a cute idea with the salamanders, young Harry, but no.

All that having been said, nonetheless Harry often does have clever ideas. The Mobile Mary is one of them - a permanently secure meeting room that can be carried around with you. The Returned have used it on occasion, when they might be observed and when there were enough of them to make it worthwhile. We can probably credit this particular bit of inventiveness to the Muggle spirit of entrepreneurship; wizards and witches are used to the same age-old buildings and communities and fortresses, and are perhaps too accustomed to living in a lesser age of magic.

This particular Mobile Mary has a metallic scent of sweat and excitement that the Fresh Air Charm can't quite overcome with its light minty breeze. Five witches, one wizard, and a goblin are all sitting at the table: Hermione, Susie, Hyori, Simon, Charlevoix, Tonks, and Urg. All of them but one have a dullness to their gaze - not tired or even sad, but broken in a way not easily mended. Still, they are calm and pleasant as they all discuss the findings of their investigations of the bombing murder of one Tarleton Gest.

As you remember, Susie and Hyori had gone to investigate the victim's friend, Bill Kemp, the young man who had identified the body and who had been hired with him. Susie is a dark-haired and voluptuous woman, a hundred years of age and thirty years by appearance, who was once given two years in Azkaban for the unlicensed production of portkeys and trafficking in fraudulent potions. It was an unjustly harsh sentence. Hyori, on the other hand, a slight woman of Korean descent with long bangs before her eyes, was imprisoned for murder aforethought. The justice of that is in dispute. Both ladies are members of the Returned, servants of Hermione _Atrytone_.

Observe.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

"There was nothing out of the ordinary about Kemp," Susie said. Hermione listened, leaning her chin on one hand. "Perfectly normal fellow, although not very polite. Could do with a bath or with a better quality of tobacco, perhaps."

"Stank," agreed Hyori, flatly.

"I went to that skeevy little potion shop here and bought a few bottles, and then knocked on his door as though to sell them," Susie said. She rummaged around inside of one pocket of her robes to produce two bottles of sparkling amber-coloured Diamondraught, clanking them onto the table in front of her. "Used to do that sort of thing quite often, as a decent cover. No go, but Hyori was able to nip around back and check for wards."

"None," affirmed Hyori. She gave a little shake of her head to clear the tips of her hair from her eyelashes.

Susie nodded. "I chatted him up, standing a bit away since he smelled quite unpleasant. But nothing seemed off. We watched for a few hours, but there doesn't seem to be anything there."

"Sorry," Hyori said, shrugging.

"Thank you, ladies. Do you think we should keep eyes on him?" Hermione asked. She didn't have many people to spare, but she desperately wanted to solve this conclusively. The possibilities were so unsettling - even the possibility that _Harry…_ well, she wanted this matter investigated to a certainty, anyway.

"Doesn't seem worth it," Susie said, looking thoughtful. "He'd remember a luscious bint like me, and Hyori, you, Charlevoix, and Urg stand out too much, and Esther is famous here. That would just leave Simon or Tonks, and I think we'd best have them with us if we get into a spot. Plus, it's not like he's going anywhere, so if we need to do, we can pop on back and get on him. He's got a job and all, and if it's someone all Polyjuiced they'll probably keep their cover if they think they got away with it. So all's said and done, no, I think we'd best leave him be and get on with it."

Hermione looked at Hyori, who said nothing and only shook her head in agreement with her talkative companion.

"What did the Council say?" asked Urg. The warrior-goblin had a strong Gobbledegook accent, his native tongue putting a guttural rattle on the velar consonant sounds at the start of "what" and "council." It was mildly distracting, but they were all used to it. He had only arrived an hour before the meeting, but they'd already caught him up.

"The main person in charge there, Councilor Hig, seemed okay with all this. He seems… well, he seems like he's on our side, frankly," Hermione said, pursing her lips.

Simon and Urg both started to speak at once, and there was a moment of politeness as they each paused. Simon continued, after a second, and said, "But the Americas helped kill the Statute when we tried to put it through!" The big Scot was irritated. All of the Returned had taken that defeat badly. It had no provisions against torture or Dementors, _per se_, but it would have been a step forward to their worldwide elimination. Not one more minute.

"Things change," Hermione replied. "From what I understand, he didn't trust Harry-" There were glances around the table among the rest at that statement; the Returned didn't trust the Tower very much, either. "-and he misunderstood what we do. But Harry said something that convinced them to reconsider him, and as for me... having met with him and Councilor Tineagar twice now, and spent some time speaking with each of them, I think they're coming around." Esther, who had gone along with her to the Alþing, nodded.

She didn't say anything about her supernatural aura, which they all already knew might have had something to do with Hig's warming attitude towards the Tower and Goddess. There were defenses and alarms that experienced wizards could deploy to stop the influence of Veela or Hags, but there was no known way to defend yourself from the air of innocence and trust exuded by unicorns and Hermione alone. Unicorns had simply never been weaponized effectively or frequently, and so there had never been cause. It made her more persuasive, because people let down their instinctive defenses… she liked to think it made them more open to reason, and that it was only a supernatural equivalent to dressing well or wearing pleasant scents. It was the halo effect.

It was an old theory, and some psychologists (Dion, Berscheid, and Walster, her brain automatically supplied) had done detailed studies of the effect as far back as 1972, so it was old hat to Muggle science. Test subjects were told that their perceptiveness was being measured, and shown photographs that ranged in attractiveness. They were asked to rate the subjects of the photos in a wide variety of personality traits, based on nothing more than the pictures. In that study, and many replications along different lines, people had demonstrated a remarkable willingness to judge the virtue, intelligence, and sociability of complete strangers based entirely on their appearance - and pretty people were often judged to be good, smart, and pleasant. The fairness of the halo effect was harder to untangle (maybe pretty people really did tend to be more pleasant, since people were more likely to be nice to them?) but it was hard to ignore its existence. Especially since Hermione's halo effect was super-charged. She always felt a little guilty about it, but she would have felt more guilty if she hadn't used it.

Hermione absently twirled her wand over her knuckles, twitching her fingers minutely to make it spin and dance, as she turned back to Urg and added, "I believe that representatives from Ackle might also have had something to do with his attitude… it is known that Hig stopped in Gringotts while he was in London, and I would bet he's taken steps to verify the good things he's been hearing about our work with Beings." _Hearing from his global network of information-filching devices, _she thought with annoyance. _I wonder how he listens in on the merfolk or the centaurs? Are there magical microphone fish? The Protean Charm doesn't work within extended spaces like the Mobile Mary, but there doesn't seem to be any range limit otherwise, but those Beings don't buy much of anything… what would he bug?_

Urg nodded in satisfaction. A goblin with a wand… he was a living symbol of the progress they had made, although he virtually never used it.

"Simon, Charlevoix?" Hermione asked. They had gone to investigate Tarleton's boarding house.

"The family had already cleaned out the boy's room," Simon said. "It looked like an anchorite's cell by the time we got there. We spoke to the landlord and neighbors, and some friends. Seems like he was just like the friend - nothing out of the ordinary about him. They'd both left school only a few years ago, spent some time abroad on holiday - the Caucasus, I think they said - and found a job with the Council when they came back. We didn't go speak to the family… it felt like it would have been too much." Simon was a thick man, with a chest like a barrel and curly black hair. His eyes looked tired and flat, as though a twinkle had been weighed down by sorrow, pressed out of existence like a stray spark.

Looking at Simon, Hermione felt a twinge as she wondered what might have been, if he hadn't been an alcoholic, or if the wizarding world took that sort of thing seriously, or if he hadn't lost his temper in the Wizengamot. _Oh Simon, my Simon… what were you like? Were you a roaring and jolly man? Did you kiss your mum on the cheek, every time you saw her? Did you catch up a small dog in those big hands, petting its head with one thumb as you drank a cuppa in the morning?_

"You did the right thing, Simon," Hermione said. He looked back at her, and nodded, eyes flat. Charlevoix sat quietly, and seemed to have nothing to add when Hermione glanced at her.

"Well, that leaves us nowhere," Hermione continued with a sigh. "We should plan our second round of investigation… where can we best devote our resources? Let's list all the possibilities and try to be creative with our options, before we decide on any plan." She pulled out a notebook and pencil from a pocket of her robes, flipping to a fresh sheet. "As near as I can see, there are a few ways we can look at this. We can go back to the Alþing and take a look at the bombing scene, and see if maybe we missed any pieces of the bomb on the first pass. We might be able to trace that back to its origin. I can review the memory of the bombing, as well, if Tineagar will let me." She started making a list, pencil scratching on the paper with a comforting sound of industriousness. "We can approach Tarleton's family, and look into his background a little more - maybe even examine his ashes. We can see about whether or not Hig might let us look at some of their intelligence from conversations nearby… maybe they have it sorted geographically or something." She paused. "He might not want us to do that, so we should also consider other options there."

She wrote quickly. The Returned were all silent, so she encouraged them, glancing up with a warm smile of fondness. "Come on, everyone. Don't worry about whether or not your ideas seem good or bad or silly or impossible, we're just coming up with all the options we can. I know that you c-can-"

A quiet bubbling sound inside of her mind interrupted Hermione, and she stuttered over the last word. It was the soft fizz of freshly-poured butterbeer, and not unpleasant. She put down her pencil and reached inside of her robes again, pulling out her pocket mirror. She held it up in front of her, saying, "Hello?" Just like answering a telephone, if a phone could ring inside your head.

An image of Tonks appeared. Well, the chin of Tonks. "Lemon sherbert, let me in!" she said, chirpily.

Hermione looked at Esther and nodded, and the American hopped up from her seat and went to the door, opening it. Tonks tripped in, smiling, her hair multicolored and her features in their typical arrangement. Probably not her native appearance, but it was the face she usually wore.

"Did I arrive at a good dramatic moment?" Tonks asked. "Were you breaking something and shouting about how we hadn't found anything, and shaking your fist at the sky?"

Hermione rolled her eyes and leaned back in her chair. "Did you find anything on your mysterious mission, which was doubtless silly and reckless?"

"I never get to make surprise entrances with all our security," Tonks said with a huff as she sat in one of the chairs and slumped forward onto the table, dramatically. She was in a flagrantly good mood, and so she'd clearly found something. "I'm going to start eating six meals a day until I gain enough weight to do a good Simon, and _then_ I'll surprise you."

"Tonks." Hermione said, her mouth twisting into a smile despite herself.

"Well-o, well-o… I guess I did find something," Tonks said, tilting her head to the side to lie flat on the table, and examining the nails of one hand as they grew a centimeter. "I mean, if you're _interested_ in secret mysterious meetings."

Hermione waited, patiently, the smile still on her face. Hyori crossed her arms, scowling.

"I followed everyone around," Tonks said, "And just watched for the people who were following you lot. Madame Bones always says that 'watching someone is a message to itself,' and so I watched for whoever else was watching. Once I found which of you had two people following you, instead of just one, I knew where to look more closely."

"...since you knew it wasn't just the Council following that person," Hermione said, slowly. Tonks nodded vigorously. "But how did you know the Council didn't just have extra people watching one pair of us, for whatever reason?"

Tonks looked enormously pleased with herself, and Hermione knew she'd been waiting for that question. The metamorphmagus smiled and said, "The shoes. Almost no one ever remembers to disguise their shoes properly when they're out and about, being all secret and spying. It's one of the things you only notice when you're always looking at people to copy bits of them, like me. So when I saw one of the two spies in a pair of Twilfitt and Tattings' court shoes, I knew something odd was up."

Hermione was impressed. _A bit thin, but a clever way to find a new lead. Didn't I read that in something about the Cold War? Either way, I'll have to remember this. _Well, of course she'd remember it, since Tonks was going to revel in this triumph for months.

"After that," Tonks said, "it was easy enough to follow that guy back to a little rough alley, somewhere near the docks. I don't know exactly where, but I marked it down. And he went into a dingy little pub, and I went in after him, and saw him go into a back room behind a curtain. I could only get a peek into the room, but I could see what was what, right enough. Fancy door, giant gold doorknob, and three pedestals with fiddly things on them. Textbook secret entrance."

_Oh. Disappointing_. "Tonks, we're in Tidewater. The base rate for secret entrances - I mean, given where we are, any secret entrance is more likely to go to some club, or a Westphalian hideout, or even just a creepy place for randy old men."

"That curtain you go through?" Tonks said. "Green and silver, decorated with a snake."

_Still not solid. A little sloppy. But suspicious. How do we go in? It'd be quiet to go in alone, or with just one person. No, that's silly. If it's not the Malfoy group, if it's just a nogtail-fighting ring, then there's no loss in going in force. And if it is the Malfoys - why hang up a sign advertising your secret hideout? - then it's probably a trap (_definitely_ a trap) so it makes even more sense to go in force._

"Tonks, take us. Charlevoix, contact Harry. Tell him everything we've done, and where we're going. Everyone else: gauntlets on. If this isn't nothing, then it's probably a trap." _If Harry is behind this, and he probably isn't, then he already knows about this place. If he isn't involved, then it'd be stupid not to have told him that we were doing a Light Brigade charge into a probable trap._

They all stood up. Almost as one, they reached into robes or pouches and withdrew a golden metal gauntlet; Urg withdrew two. The gauntlets seemed to have no angles to them, except along the ridges of the knuckles; the metal of their composition was so shiny that it seemed to defy brute existence. They were loaded, the small boxes of their chargers embedded into the sockets in a line along the back of the hand. Their fit was impossibly perfect, and they flashed with imminent puissance.

"Save one life," Urg rattled. They marched out the door.


	11. Bonus: Goblins

_1107 C.E._

_Sugworn Sug, Ackle_

_All Acklish Gobbeldegook translated to modern vernacular English._

Haddad pounded on the door of Sugworn Sug. He was an enormous fellow, perhaps four and a half Roman feet in height, and the thumping of his fist on the wood shook the whole door. "Dodrod!" he called, pounding again. "Dodrod, open up!"

After a few grains, Dodrod finally loosed the knot and shifted the bar, opening the door. He was a smaller fellow than Haddad, but handsome as goblins reckon: short and finely-curved ears, a high nose, a dark eye, and skin like cream. "What is it?" he asked irritably, tucking his wand away in his shirt. He had been setting his house in order, and the interruption was annoying. He'd already lost track of which of his will-works he'd refreshed, so now he'd have to start from the beginning, unless he wanted his bed to suddenly revert to unvarnished wood in a few days. It was a tiresome chore, and he had to do it more often than those of greater will, and so he did not relish starting over.

"The Wizards Council has called a moot! The human Thing is gathering in London!" Haddad said, urgently.

Dodrod's eyes widened as he lurched forward, seizing at Haddad's collar. "You are certain? Why do they call a gathering? Is there war amongst them?"

The larger goblin shook his head. "No! Severus Hortensius has sent owls throughout the realm, crying against us! If there is war - it is against _us!_" Small sharp teeth gnashed, Haddad's eyes were opened wide in alarm. "Dodrod, Hortensius is calling for our wands! He specifically summoned the Greek to the moot!"

Dodrod blanched, but shook his head. "Ollivander would never bow to such demands! She is a proud woman, and many owe her favors, human and sundry alike!"

"I do not have your confidence," Haddad said, as Dodrod released his collar. "But either way, we need to come up a plan."

"Yes," Dodrod said, sighing. He stepped past Haddad, to the edge of his home platform. "They fear us." He looked out over Ackle, and gestured. "They fear _this_."

In its natural configuration, stripped of all Forms, Ackle would have been a plain city. It was large by any standard, with nearly three thousand goblins living within the mountain, but much of the true substance was harsh, indecorous metal and stone. The underpinnings of Ackle were hewn and true-forged to be unyieldingly strong, holding buildings level to cling to the steep interior walls. It was for safety's sake, so that no combination of poor scheduling and weighty homes could lead to the collapse of the city. Many goblins willed their homes into structures that were not only beautiful, but also heavy, with vaulting marble walls and diamond roofs; these homes would have broken and fallen if they were set upon anything but stone and iron supports.

But Dodrod knew that few visitors might be aware of these facts - for why would any goblin tell them? - and so Ackle must have looked like a place of impossible wonder. Whirlgigs of weighted gems and gold swung in ceaseless patterns from elegant manors that glowed in the rock-sun's light (itself a marvel of Vincian mirrors). The narrow streets, clinging to the side of Ackle's mountain-within-a-mountain, were solid curving surfaces of pebble-surfaced granite, shot through with beautiful whorls of starmetal. The ceiling of native rock, the sheer drop of the vast Oubliette below the city, and a few choice pillars were the only unworked places in the whole city.

It was magic, of course, but not incomprehensible magic. To be accorded a seat in the Urgod Ur, each grown goblin had to tend to a portion of the city, sculpting it with Forms and renewing the longevity of their work every few days. Naturally, there was some mild competition within the Urgod Ur as a result, and so the city shone like a glittering gold lode in the rough. It was a living representation of the fierce goblin spirit, for goblins put themselves into whatever they created, from the heatless magma of the Jurg Hod right down to the trivial hand-forging work of Toggle Gol.

Dodrod tried to imagine Ackle without wands, or with those crude wands that the Welsh humans in the surrounding areas used. To him it seemed like the place would be a dark and dismal underground version of Tomen y Mur: clumsy stones and that Muggle stone-wax crafted into rough buildings, all thick with smoke and anger.

Haddad spoke with a snarl, thumping his hand against the luminescent emerald of the wall of Dodrod's home. "Our souls go into our works - what we make, is made of our spirit! Would they take that from us? Are they mad, to think we will permit it?"

"We won't permit it," Dodrod agreed. "We won't let it happen. We will leave the fortresses of the Fey and Gwent and Hortensius himself all in ruins, first. We will give them our wands as hot as new bronze, and quench them in wizard blood, first. And if that fails… we will try again until those wands break in our hands, and throw the pieces at them. We are a patient people."

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_1580 C.E._

_Gringotts Wizarding Bank, Diagon Alley, London_

"And that is why, dearest Ug, I regret to say that we will be assuming formal proprietorship over the bank. It has been a score of years since the intercessors began working with you and your kind, here, and so there will be no damage in the transition. We must protect the bank - there are representations that we must make before the Wizengamot. While you have done a fine job, you cannot request examinations, you cannot request the body, and you cannot really function in this wider world of trade. This isn't just for the good of the bank, it's for the good of your kind."

Ug sat in stunned silence, quill in one limp hand, notes forgotten. Years and years of meddling and greed, and now they wanted to swallow it all up, as though they had put anything of themselves into the bank? He wanted to spit. He wanted to vomit.

Closing his ledger, Ug licked his lips, and spoke carefully. His mind was already racing ahead like a gol doll. So much hung on this moment. So unbelievably much for one unprepared Ug Sugug, Chief Goldsmith. "You would assume title of Gringotts, as a group? Or on behalf of the Wizards Council?"

Alba laughed like a small bell. "Oh, on behalf of the Council, Ug! I won't make a Knut off of this… I'm in it just like you, working as I'm told! Really, it'll just be like before… you and me against them!" She leaned over the table to slide the official documents over to him, the seal of the Wizards Council visibly moving as it melted and re-stamped itself, continually asserting its veracity. "Each of the Grand Sorcerers has commanded, and so we must follow orders." She winked, and it was repulsive to Ug.

He smiled, and chuckled. _Look at me, I am in on the joke. We're good friends, and I am a fool who was happy to sign over half the coining-cost rights to you stub-toothed idiots._

"Well then," Ug said. "I will have the documents prepared. All the rights and responsibilities, everything to be transferred to the Office of Intercession, held on behalf of the Wizards Council, yes?" This was possible. Many of the terms under which Gringotts operated had been established at the founding of the bank, sealed by the fires of the Goblet to be eternally binding for as long as the institution should last. But ownership could be transferred; that was permitted.

"Yes," Alba agreed, after a long moment. She was not stupid, of course. But she didn't have the feel for Gringotts - the true weight of the gold, the true heft of the stone, the true heat of the dragons. The intercessors never went into the vault-catacomb. They sat in their posh office, rightfully the office of the Chief Curse-Breaker, and argued over numbers. But they had none of their soul in the stuff of Gringotts, and so they would never know the whole of those numbers.

"The terms will be all words and fluff, but I presume that the Office will take on all ongoing powers of enforcement, coining, curse-breaking, storage, and the like?" Ug said, lightly. Alba nodded, and Ug could almost see her salivate at the prospect. Ug didn't know what part of the fees the intercessors received, but he guessed it to be nearly one in ten. Her share would be a fortune.

"And you will still want to employ us goblins, yes?" Ug said, and winked one black eye. As though these half-giants would deign to work the vaults themselves.

Alba laughed. "We couldn't even begin to do it without you!"

_True enough_.

He laughed along with her. "Then do you wish to pay stipends - no, of course not, what if business slackened and you were left to pay the stipends of five hundred goblins on the back of a trickle of income? Sorry, I was being stupid. You will, I suppose, wish to simply have the same sort of terms as before, but modified? You would take all other fees, and we would keep only the coin-fee?"

Alba folded her fingers in front of herself, and leaned forward, her face crafty. "The terms have been half the coin-fee for the services of the Council and its intercessors, my friend, and everything else for you. But now we'll be doing so much more work, making the decisions, running things, and working to protect the bank in the Wizengamot. You'll just have to do your duties and not have worry about _any_ of that! I think it's safe to say that the Council will expect all incomes, and _perhaps _half of the coin-fee will be allocated to you and yours."

Ug sighed, shaking his head. "That will be hard to bear… even these past years under our current agreement, it has been hard to stay solvent." _Hard to bear… it's insane. The coin-fee might be one of our best sources of monies, but half of it wouldn't suffice for the entire goblin staff! That used to be the _bribe_ they paid to these vultures, and now it would be all that was left to them?!_

"I know," Alba said, "but I can honestly say that you are so enormously clever for a goblin that I have absolute faith that you will be able to do this. Your ideas have been marvelous, at times."

_For a goblin. _Oh, this would not do.

"Very well," Ug said, heavily. He opened his ledger, and wrote some nonsense for a second, then paused. "Well, maybe this is an opportunity."

"Yes!" Alba agreed, enthusiastically (and slightly surprised). "You will have the chance to do all the things you never had time to do. You always said you wanted to go back to live in Ackle, and work in the forges of your mighty stone city. Now you can do that!"

"I meant an opportunity for all goblins, really," Ug said, smiling in a way that entirely failed to touch his eyes. "Maybe we should take no part of the coin-fee, either. All fees and income would be the Council's."

"I'm not sure…" Alba said, uncertainly. Doubtless she thought he was proposing that wizards run the Bank entire. Ha! As if they'd leave their will-work in the hands of the clipped clods!

"I mean, we can do other things than banking, as you know. I have often thought of opening up…" Ug said, trailing off. He interrupted himself, leaving her to wonder what fantastically successful new enterprise he was dreaming of building. He knew that her thoughts would be of taking control of that, too, one day. It was the way of their loathsome selves, to spread out and devour like insects. "Never mind. But perhaps my people could take only two parts in ten of the coin-fee? Would that be possible?"

Alba Greengrass, who must have thought that Merlin himself was addling Ug's mind, smiled softly. She'd just had the Chief Goldsmith agree to keep on all the goblin staff at less than half of what she'd anticipated paying them! "Oh, yes. I think that would be possible."

"We'd just want a few fees waived, in return. No coinage fee, no storage fee? Galleons will be tight in these initial years, as we work to start other businesses. We'd still pay for enforcement, contracts, and all the rest." Ug leaned back, and began to make a list. He wrote in a slightly larger hand than usual:

_-Jeweler._

_-Silverworks._

_-Tinworks._

_Look at all these businesses we could start. And you can steal them, too, someday. You can try to take our souls there, too._

Alba looked pained, though Ug had no doubt she was inwardly rejoicing. "No fees on coin or storage? I don't know if I can get the Council to agree to that."

Ug put down his pen, and clasped his hands in front of himself. "Please, Alba? For me - for friendship, and all these past years working together?"

"Very well," Alba said, nodding solemnly and severely. "For you, I will do my best to make sure these are the terms."

"Thank you, dearest Alba," Ug said. "And please, don't hesitate to rely on us. Should the bank ever become insolvent, let us have it on oath that goblinkind will take it on our backs, once more."

"Of course," she agreed.

_And to hasten that time,_ Ug thought, hate boiling behind his grateful smile, _we will devote ourselves to scouring the world for gold. Every scrap of it will be coined and stored, and the terms of storage have been sealed by the Goblet and cannot be altered. The cost of holding will increase year by year until it flows red over the Gringotts books, and you will pay it. And when you cannot, we will have back what is ours. And we _will not _forget_.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

No one knows the origin of the goblins, not even the goblins themselves. Urg the Unclean, who would lead the fifth and greatest of the goblin rebellions in Britain between 1720 and 1722 C.E., was fond of spreading the Shikoku goblin legend of the All-Opposer, who fell from heaven on a shooting star and laid waste with his rage, rending metal like paper and turning all that fell under his gaze into sand. The All-Opposer made goblins to be his servants and castellans, and Urg would shout in a roaring clatter of Gobbledegook that goblins had fire in their veins, and were born to greater fates than the mudwater humans.

Whatever their birth into this world, though, it is certain that goblins are patient and methodical by their very nature, and they are possessive to a fault. Goblins usually die before their grudges do.

It was two hundred and eighty-five years before Gringotts was returned to goblinkind, in 1865 C.E., after very nearly ruining the Ministry of Magic (which had assumed control upon the demise of the Wizards Council). Though Ug the Bloody had not known the term of demurrage, his people used it as a far-sighted weapon over the course of two and a half centuries, mounting the vaults of the bank high with gold that had to be guarded with proportionate precautions under the terms of the founding, an unbreakable necessity enforced by the Goblet of Fire. Costs grew incrementally with every passing year, and the wizards never could discern how the wealth seemed to be draining from them.

And other goblins waged war after war against witches and wizards. Twice over the course of a thousand years, they founded and sacrificed new communities of their kind on the altar of their ancient enmity. In the seventeenth century, Crad the Callow led the Curdish separatists of Caislean-i-Cahaenn in three separate and bloody rebellions, before they were entirely wiped out, while Urg the Unclean swore ceaseless violence against all of humanity at the head of his independent Togrod Teulu in the eighteenth century.

If you cannot win and you refuse to lose, then _impose costs._

After they lost the power of Transfiguration, forgotten when their wands were stripped away, the goblins found solace in device-making. They made great and terrible works, and their patience and care let them create items of unparalleled power. Goblins believe, perhaps correctly, that part of your soul goes into that which you create. You own it, ever after. Only such passion can create weapons such as the Sword of Ragnuk, which remains the most potent blade in existence (for it is not made of steel, but of the Form of war itself). Only such hate can make the Arch of Ulak Unconquered, the most perfect prison ever devised.

Knowing what we know, there is a question.

You have been for a long time in the darkest of woods, hounded by wolves and torn by thorns. For years, you have made your bed on rough boughs and breakfasted on bitter herbs. There has been no light, and you have suffered. You are made of patient anger, slow-burning but hot, and those coals are your only warmth.

Then ahead, there is a break in the darkness. Between one heartbeat and the next, you step out into the day, blinking in the cool bright morning. You are free. In an instant, you are made whole.

Will you forget?


	12. Any Advantage

_Make no mistake: this is a war, and you must choose sides. It might not be an easy choice. It is very possible that you agree with some of the things that the Tower has forced on Britain, or that you disagree with much of what we tell you in these pages. But you must make your imperfect choice, for the sake of our heirs and the world. These are the times when you must find your courage and hold to it, even when the enemy is vast and powerful._

_What makes you shudder, when you think of the Tower? Perhaps you wish to live a natural life, and for your family to live a natural life, without being reshaped by Dark rituals into a creature of the Tower. Perhaps you believe in an order to the world, where wizards and witches work as caretakers and stewards over the lesser races, rather than rubbing shoulders with half-beasts and ignorant Muggles. Perhaps you treasure the long traditions of wizardkind, such as Quidditch - yes, even the great game is in peril! What do _you _fear from this tyrant?_

_This is a war, and you _must _choose sides. And it is the greatest war, even beyond those fought against Grindelwald or Voldemort, since every fallen soldier only rises to serve as the enemy's slave. The winner will take all, and the stakes are so high that every old grudge or loyalty must be swept aside. Do you resent that we no longer fight for blood purity? I tell you here that it ranks as nothing in the larger picture; it is as important as a chesspawn on a true battlefield. Do you wish that we could go back to ignoring the Muggles, and pretending that they have not found their own clever power? I tell you here that the most important thing in this war is to win, and to defeat the tyranny of evil I would take any advantage._

Excerpt from "Allies Must Gather," by Draco Malfoy

_Unbreakable Honour_

Vol 4 (1999), Issue 9

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

The redcap is not Nature's most perfect killing machine. It is not the second most perfect killing machine, either, nor the third. In terms of perfect killing machines, the redcap is somewhere down the list below not only the quintaped and every variety of dragon, but also such relatively workaday beasts as the shrake.

The redcap, which has a dim but malicious intelligence, resembles nothing so much as a grotesque human of between two and three feet in height. They are drawn to wizard blood and love to feed upon it, but are capable of surviving on a diet of slugs and sparrows. They invariably use crude clubs made from bone or wood, and dress themselves in woven grass. Redcaps are named for their hair, which they instinctively smear with blood and slick back into a high peak.

A young or sickly Muggle might have trouble with a redcap. An adult Muggle would find little danger from as many as two. Witches and wizards consider them nothing more than a mildly-dangerous nuisance, even when they attack in gangs of five or six.

It would take on the order of a hundred redcaps, compelled to work together, to seriously threaten an adult magic-user.

But as for a horde of three hundred redcaps… why, _anyone_ should feel threatened.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

Hermione followed Tonks as the metamorphmagus led them to the alley at a brisk pace. Like the rest of the Returned, Tonks' right hand was encased in a gold-shining gauntlet of power, but she was the only one who accompanied it with a grin, visible even from the rear. Hermione, Charlevoix, Esther, Simon, Susie, Hyori, and Urg followed. The group of eight Returned were all wary, taut, and suspicious as they walked through the narrow Tidewater streets.

Perhaps there was no need to worry, at least out here, Hermione thought. More than one smiling face watched them pass by with approval, and they even received a ragged but enthusiastic huzzah from a trio of old men who stood under a gaslight. Hermione thought it was probably half her own presence, and half the presence of Esther (a celebrity in these parts, though she had little memory of America).

The town-within-a-city of Tidewater was clean and colonial, with whitewashed walls and shining cobblestones. A sizable part of Boston's waterfront had been twisted into a knot centuries ago to produce this enfolded magical community, drawing upon the power of America's eastern ley line to power the fold, in much the same way that Hogwarts drew from Scotland's northern ley. Tidewater was nowhere near as impressive as Hogwarts, of course, and virtually all of those energies were wasted in the sloppy spell-work that had built the place. _But even this sort of wasteful work is beyond us, even with all the research done at the Tower_, Hermione thought. _Chargers and slice-boxes are clever enough, but can we really rebuild this sort of knowledge base?_

It wasn't a question of the raw power. It was a question of using it in the right way. The creators of Hogwarts had whipped their magics in and out of reality like a needle, pulling and folding a Scottish lakeside with the elegance of a master tailor. But if you couldn't ply your puissance behind a needlepoint, you were reduced to hammering one fold on top of the other, nailing them in place with crude might.

"_No wizard, no matter how powerful, casts such a Charm by strength alone. You must do it by being _efficient_."_

Her thoughts were wandering. Hermione snapped her attention back to the task at hand, chagrined at her own lack of focus. They were a visibly armed troop of British witches and wizards, marching through little-known territory to investigate a mysterious door decorated with the banner of one of their greatest enemies. It didn't matter how friendly everyone seemed… Diagon Alley had been friendly right up until someone had smeared her with acid and dropped a bomb at her feet. She flexed her left hand in its gauntlet at the thought; the device felt snug and secure, but left her with such freedom of movement that it might have been made of silk rather than goblin gold. It was only a precaution - backup, if things went south - but it felt good to have it.

"This is it," Tonks announced loudly, with virtually no discretion. The Returned were standing before the Armin Arms, which was indeed (as she had said) a "dingy little pub." That was, if anything, a kind way to describe the establishment. The whitewash was grey, and the pub's sign - a pair of masks, happy and sad - appeared to be actually rotting. In the Muggle world, it would look run-down. In the magical world, it was like a neon sign proclaiming the Armin Arms to be EXTREMELY SUSPICIOUS AND POSSIBLY QUITE DANGEROUS.

Two children in rather nice robes peeked from around the corner down the street, and whispered to each other. Hermione whipped a glance at them, face angry, and they vanished. This was no place for children.

"Let's go in," she said. They sorted themselves into a practiced pattern: Simon in front to take the door, everyone else in pairs after him (Esther and Tonks first), with Urg bringing up the rear. They scanned for traps, both magical and mundane, and then they were in through the door, swiftly and smoothly.

The inside of the Armin Arms wasn't much better than the outside. A surprised-looking bartender stood behind a long bar made entirely of unpolished brass, curse-scarred with blackened welts of bubbled metal in several places. A long mirror went the length of the wall behind him. There were only two customers: surly and saturated men slumping at a battered table. The only clean things were the big rattan rug that stretched out wide in the middle of the room and the Slytherin tapestry that hung on one wall. The place smelled unpleasant: metallic like copper, but thick with the sickly-sweet smell of rot.

"Hello, gentlemen," Hermione said, smiling. "Sorry about the drama… a bit silly, isn't it? Just here to look around, if you don't mind?" None of the three said anything in response, quiescent from surprise or alcohol - except for one of the drunks, who slid forward onto his face, flinging out one arm across the table and loudly passing gas. There was a slight tremble underfoot, as though someone had stomped on the boards. Strange.

"Charming," Susie said, lowering her wand from the ready position. "Quick, someone hold me back. I must restrain my lust."

Charlevoix stepped forward a pace, sniffing. "_Faites attention… _This is the stink of blood."

"Rug," Hyori said, gesturing. Catching her hint, Hermione nodded in confirmation. She glanced over at the witch with a quick smile of praise, and used her eyes to indicate the gaseous drunk. Hyori pointed her wand at him. Taking the hint, Esther and Simon covered the other two. Urg covered the door with two golden-gauntleted palms, moving to the side.

Within the instant, both "drunks" and the bartender were in motion. The first two tried to seize the heavy oak table in front of them and heave it up. Good idea, and faster than going for a wand, but too slow. Simon stunned his target before the man had done more than grab the table, and while Hyori's first hex missed, her man couldn't lift the table quickly enough on his own, and her second stunner swatted him flat.

The bartender ducked down, and Esther's attack hit a bottle of firewhiskey instead, inflicting glowing red cracks in a spiderweb across the surface of the glass. The bartender reached over the brass bar with his wand, and blindly shouted a curse that Hermione didn't recognize: "_Aplaniodin_!" Two dozen discrete rays of yellow light flared out from his wand like a starburst, solid beams of brightness that looked dense enough to touch. Half of them stabbed straight out throughout the room, stopping when they struck the walls, floor, and ceiling all around, while the other half were reflected in the mirror behind the bar, angling back at Hermione and her Returned.

One of the beams of light struck Simon, and another struck Charlevoix. They were smashed aside by the blow. Esther flung herself to the ground to avoid a beam, while Hyori inclined her head just enough so that another roared past her cheek and left her untouched. Hermione was already moving, stepping lightly from the floor to a chair to a table, barely even noticing her own deft steps. Before the curse had died away, she had launched herself into a curling arc over one of the beams, singing out a hex as she leapt the room. The bartender crumpled, wracked with a red glow.

Simon hauled himself to his feet within a few seconds, blood streaming from his nose and mouth. He'd been struck solidly in the side, but he must have hit the ground unluckily; it looked like his nose was badly broken. He was silent. Tonks went to check on Charlevoix, while Susie moved to Simon with her wand already in position for a scan. Urg kept the door covered.

"Esther, the rug."

Esther approached the broad rattan stretch in the center of the room. What wandless magic had been cast on or under it… _Spongify_? Wandless magic was difficult - it required holding certain thoughts in the correct way and thinking them into new "positions" - so it couldn't be anything too terrible. Their opponents hadn't been that impressive. _But _what_ was that light spell? It instantly controlled the room and hit like an iron Bludger. I've never seen or heard about a curse that powerful _and_ that fast. _She'd have to consult the Hogwarts library and a few people (Amelia, Alastor, Harry) but she was fairly sure that she would have remembered it. _Odd._

"Hssss…"

A soft susurrus like a snake, and the rug shifted, flexing slightly from some pressure below. Hermione frowned. A serpent? Not very imaginative, even if the Malfoy snake fetish bordered on the embarrassing.

_No_. A low voice whispered a word, and the sound was wet. "Maschaechgo."

Susie had pulled Simon aside, and she paused just to cast an _Episkey _on his nose before turning back to the rug. Urg faced the space as well, both palms up. Hyori and Esther had their wands up. Tonks had overturned a table for cover, and was still examining Charlevoix to see if she should be keyed out to the Tower, or if she could recover.

Everyone was appropriately alarmed.

"Maschaechgo… maschaechgo." The voice smacked wetly again, and repeated the word. After a moment, another joined it, saying the same thing. Hermione didn't recognize the language.

Slowly, Esther backed away. The rattan rug flexed up a second time, and then slid off to the side, whispering its way along the floor, gradually revealing the black square of a pit. A single small hand, the size of a child's, reached from within and delicately grabbed the pit's edge. Then the redcap pulled himself up, and Hermione could see his head.

It was like a horrible mockery of an old man, as though someone had seized the face of the creature and yanked the flesh in different and random directions. Twisted and corded flesh muddled together into something like a face. The teeth in the open mouth, which leered vacantly, were so white and so sharp. The hair was dark crimson, clotted back into a high peak with old blood. In the other hand was a bone club, wrapped with a twine handle.

Nasty creatures, but not too dangerous.

Another hand appeared on the pit edge. Then another, and another. Small malformed heads levered themselves up into view. "Maschaechgo," one of them said, lips shining with spittle.

"Maschaechgo… maschaechgo… maschaechgo… maschaechgo… maschaechgo… maschaechgo… maschaechgo…"

Dozens.

"No killing," Hermione said, and raised her wand again. They were horrid, but sentient.

"Save one life," Simon and Susie and Esther and Urg and Hyori said, in unison, and raised their own wands. They all drew closer, and set themselves between the pit and where Tonks was tending to Charlevoix with healing spells.

_Save one life, and it is as though you have saved the whole world._

"_Stupefy!" _she shouted, and the battle was joined.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

It is a well-established fact that, since the Peace of Westphalia, dueling tactics have dominated magical combat. The days of massed armies of Muggles led by a handful of wizards and witches passed into memory, and by the dawn of the nineteenth century there were few alive who remembered that style of fighting.

You might object at such a characterization, pointing out the armies of goblins, centaurs, and other creatures that wizards still matched themselves against. But goblins lost their wands a thousand years ago, and in their rebellions they made guerilla war with cleverness and subtlety, never in standing fights. As for the centaurs and other creatures… well, let us be frank. It was never "war" when wizards and witches fought them. It was punishment… or extermination.

There have been surprisingly few exceptions to this general trend, particularly as dueling tactics have become highly refined and specialized. International magical warfare, crudely fought with massed wizards and witches, was nearly eliminated by the Peace and its fallout (the International Confederation, the State of Secrecy, etc). Even those Dark Lords and Ladies who defy convention and try to build slave-armies with crowd-control magics find no one willing to take the challenge. A team of Hit Wizards, sent on behalf of the Confederation by a member state simply visits them alone, late one night. Even Grindelwald's forces defaulted to dueling behavior, and even he was only duelled into submission.

Lord Voldemort was one of those few who defied the trend, gathering crowds of Death-Eaters and leading them in attacks on other groups, controlling the battlefield and managing his soldiers from the rear. And though this was not well-known, he didn't do this because it was efficient… he did it because he thought it was more _interesting._

But once he'd introduced the idea again, and reinforced it in his guise of David Monroe with student armies at Hogwarts, it was only a matter of time before others realized the advantage to be gained. All of the world's strongest witches and wizards had been carefully taught to duel, above all else. Dueling spells and tactics are precisely targeted and built around overcoming individual defenses.

You cannot duel an army.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

"_Aqua Erecto!_" Esther called. She held her wand with both hands to direct the thick stream of water that blasted from its tip, and swept it through a line of redcaps. They went tumbling like ninepins, some back into the pit, but there were more to take their place. It seemed like an ocean of the vile little creatures, climbing from the pit and on each other's backs and shrieking, "Maschaechgo! Maschaechgo!"

"_Ventus! Ventus!" _shouted Simon, his face still bloody, while Hyori snapped hexes at small groups of redcaps, firing off _Immobulus_ as quickly as she was able. It was too slow… a dozen redcaps swarmed over the table she'd placed in front of her, bone clubs raised high and twisted faces alight with bloodlust.

"Rotgod!" declared Urg, leaping in beside her from an adjacent chair, one golden gauntlet raised. There was a pulse of power that throbbed through everyone's bones as the gauntlet unleashed a charger's contents at the sound of the goblin word, and a wave of sticky grey foam was ejected from the device's palm, sweeping over the swarming redcaps. It rapidly swelled, seething up into stiffening bubbles almost as large as the heads of the redcaps, imprisoning all of the swarm and a dozen more behind them.

The concept behind the foam was an old one by the standards of Muggle science, developed by Sandia Laboratories in America in the eighties; the patents had been easy enough for Hermione to retrieve in London. It was flame-retardant, it expanded to thirty times its own size once deployed, and it stood almost no chance of killing an enemy. If their faces were exposed, they would be fine, and a Bubblehead Charm could assist anyone in danger.

Cheered by the result, Hermione blasted redcaps away from herself and called to Urg, "Over the pit! Trap them inside!" She could fell them with a single spell or a single punch, but it wasn't fast enough; she'd already taken a dozen blows to the skull from bone clubs. The redcaps just kept coming, climbing over the bodies of the fallen and leaping to the attack. Why were there so _many?_ She knew they'd just been sealed in the pit, but how had they gotten them in there in the first place? This was madness. She didn't want to have to kill the beasts, but she couldn't let them kill the three stunned wizards or any of her Returned.

Urg scrambled around the mass of foam-encased redcaps, keeping well away from the sticky, swelling bubbles. But before he could get in position for another attack, one of the beasts leapt onto the foam from the pit's edge, landing on the exposed chest of a kinsman, and then tackled Urg. He was small enough that he was sent sprawling, and he took a heavy hit from the creature's club in the moments after the scramble landed. He lay motionless. Hermione stunned the redcap, and Tonks was already running to go rescue the goblin, but there seemed to be no _end_ to the little monsters. More and more redcaps climbed out of the pit by the second, howling the word that seemed to be their battle cry.

"Maschaechgo! Maschaechgo!"

Six twisted little men threw themselves at Esther, and her surging column of water missed one. He brought his club down on her shin, howling with wet lips, and she staggered before she could bring her foot back to kick the creature away. The interruption in her attack let three more within reach, and only Hyori was able to save her, blasting the redcaps off of the American witch with wind. But with every moment the two were not actively fighting back the tide of horrid creatures, the monsters surged further forward. Hermione threw curses without a pause for breath.

They would lose this battle. Attrition would win.

"Everyone!" she shouted. "Foam the pit, _now!_"

In unison, as if they were marionettes, every Returned still standing cast _Ventus _to clear their front, and then raised their palms, shouting their chosen activation words. Hyori failed to clear away all of her new attackers - three redcaps pounced at her legs, shrieking - but still managed to unleash her gauntlet, dropping to her knees as bone clubs smashed into her shins.

"_수갑__!_" said Hyori, gasping.

"Stinkbubble!" said Susie.

"Muggle-goo!" said Tonks.

"Flandermoss!" said Simon.

"AquaCem!" said Hermione.

The foam erupted from five gauntlets as they each spent the contents of the extended space within a charger. The grey substance fizzed as it washed forward in a thick wave, and almost every redcap was swept back as the foam poured across and into the pit. It expanded as it went, forcing fat and sticky bubbles down into the pit. Hermione heard an unhappy wail of "Maschaechgo!", barely audible over the sound of the foam popping and spitting.

"_Ventus!" _cast Hyori and Tonks at the same time, blowing the three redcaps clubbing Hyori's stomach into the mass of foam. They tumbled away into the swelling grey mound which had sealed over the pit, sticking to its surface and flailing their limbs angrily. Despite their twisted faces and the rotting blood clotted in their hair, they looked like nothing so much as flies trapped on fly-paper.

"_Immobulus_!" said Hermione, securing the last redcaps remaining. She reached behind and pulled a bone club from out of her hair, where it had been tangled, and irritably threw it into the mound of hissing foam. "Okay, Nymphadora, you might have found something interesting here, after all."

Tonks glanced up from where she was working with Hyori, and said with a grin, "I'm not one to say 'I told you so.' Too humble." She turned back to Hyori. "_Brackium Emendo. Cataplasma._"

"Charlevoix? Urg?" Hermione asked. She walked over to the goblin, who was on his back, reclining on his elbows. Urg just grunted in response.

"_Ça va_," Charlevoix said from near the door, where she was getting to her feet. "My ribs are nearly mended. Thank you, Tonks." She went to check on the trapped goblins, scanning to ensure that none were badly injured or dying.

Simon and Susie stayed on the alert while the injured were treated, stunning the occasional mewling redcap from time to time. Fractures and cuts and lumps were not much of an impediment to the magical, so it didn't take more than ten or fifteen minutes. For a witch or wizard, "serious injury" was more along the lines of "all my bones exploded and my hair's been turned into snakes." Hyori, Urg, and Charlevoix were ready for combat - if a bit weary - in no time.

The bartender and the two "drunks," on the other hand, were still stunned. Hermione searched the pockets of their stained clothing with distaste, and then sent them on to the Tower. _Ker-chak. Ker-chak. Ker-chak._ They'd had nothing beyond a few odds and ends, their wands, and a scrap of parchment with three crabbed words on it: "_Pest_ _numbers book._" Hermione pocketed it.

_All right. Whatever is happening here, it's clearly something big and secret and probably evil. There is absolutely no reason not to call in reinforcements at this point. Not from Britain… this is the time to bring in the Westphalians. If this is anyone _but_ them, then we're showing good faith. And if this place is their doing, then we'll be able to snare more of them once they try to spring this exceedingly obvious trap._

"Simon, Susie, Urg, and Charlevoix - go to the Council and bring them here. Hurry." _If they are intercepted or betrayed and captured, at least one will make it out to bring word. Strength in numbers will also discourage any attacks of opportunity, and four will suffice to hold our ground or (at the worst) cover an escape if we are discovered. _Hyori, Tonks, and Esther remained with Hermione.

Tonks went over to the Slytherin tapestry on the wall, and held it aside for the other three. "And here it is," she said, gesturing within a room with a low ceiling that was completely empty.

"What?" Hyori said, looking around. She was still limping slightly, and she looked cross.

"_Aparecium_," cast Esther, flicking her wand back and forth. A white paneled door with a golden doorknob in the shape of a snake's head and three stone pedestals shimmered into view as the concealment was dispelled. Each pedestal had parchment and quill sitting on it.

"Told you so," Tonks said.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

On the first stone pedestal: _"Change one letter, and subtract my end and all color, and chase me away for good."_

On the second stone pedestal: _"Grindelwald's fall less Urg's fall less price of Tower's rise."_

On the third stone pedestal: _"What have I got in my pocket?"_

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_NOTE: I am aware of the flaws in this sort of security. Please think before pointing them out to me. Levels and levels._

_NOTE: The foam used is based on the foams described in U.S. Patent 4,202,279 by Peter Rand._

_NOTE: This will never be revealed in the story, and it's probably impossible to independently deduce, so I'll just tell you: "Maschaechgo" is the phonetic spelling for the word for "red" in one of the Native American Algonquin languages, Mahican. These redcaps were captured in the Berkshires in Western Massachusetts, nowhere near Boston, and they still speak the old language they crudely appropriated from the first humans they knew._


	13. Bonus: War

Does the end justify the means? That is possible. But what will justify the end? To that question, which historical thought leaves pending, rebellion replies: the means.

-Albert Camus_, The Rebel_

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_Nurmengard, Győr-Moson, Hungary_

_April 30th, 1945 C.E._

Reg Hig had been afraid all throughout the war against Grindelwald. It was a deep and abiding fear that sat in his stomach like a stone, soured his mouth into a grimace, and left him checking and re-checking the wards compulsively. But he went anyway. He was scared and he was always exhausted and he would sometimes vomit in nervous heaves until his mouth burned with bile, but he went anyway.

If he'd had a choice, he probably wouldn't have gone. But he'd been compelled by pride and ambition, and so he had volunteered with forty other Americans to join the war against the mad Hungarian. It was the only way he could have a future in the Council. Even at that time, he'd led a sizeable contingent of the egalitarian wing, but it was clear that no coward could ever rise to great power. His father's generation had proven their mettle against centaurs and giants in the west, serving as rangers over vast swaths of territory to enforce the Statute of Secrecy. But those days were past, thanks to vigilance and genocides. So in Hig's time, mighty heroes fought Dark Lords and Ladies. Gellert Grindelwald was the darkest of Dark Lords anyone had ever seen, untouchable in his mastery and unstoppable in his cruelty. If Hig had failed to volunteer, it would have been a black mark on the family name.

But he was afraid, and had been since the moment he'd read about the Anschluss - when he'd realized the shape of things to come. And he'd known from the start, even then, that it would do no good to try to hide it. And so he'd owned it.

Before the raids and with every battle, he'd proclaimed his own terror to his allies. Hig had shouted out his fear, and then said he was going to fight anyway. If he could do it, then by Mukwooru's toe, they could damn well join him and fight by his side. Fear meant nothing, he would declare, and then he would roar out about all the things they were trying to preserve, and roar about the twisted villainy of Grindelwald's "greater good." He would roar for them to follow him, and then they would leap to their broomsticks and surge into the air and their hearts would sing with fire.

Today had been different.

After the plans had been made, and he'd shaken hands with Albus and Fu-min and Dominique and Astrid, Hig had turned to the Westphalians and Argentines and Brazilians, all of whom were now under his command, and he had said nothing. He'd just looked each of them in the eye in turn. When you needed to say something good and true - when you needed the best words - he'd long ago learned that each person had to write those words for themselves. Hig met their gazes, and looked at them steadily for a meaningful moment, and he knew that they each found their own song. And he had found that there was no longer any fear in his own heart. There was just a deep calm.

Even Limpel Tineagar had been solemn and appreciative today, and she was the most annoying witch he'd ever met. Normally, no plan was good enough for her, no leader was smart enough for her, and no speech was inspiring enough for her. He'd barely known her when they left for Europe last year, having spoken to the tall, half-blooded witch only during Council debates, and he almost wished that was still true. She took nothing on faith, and she never seemed to stir with a flicker of passion. But today she had clasped his hand and kissed him on the cheek.

Today they were all heroes, and that would be true even if they didn't see tomorrow.

Hig was flying at the rear of the ragged formation, high over Hungary. They'd started off in a neat V, but it had degraded to a shapeless mass as they struggled to keep up with Momo. Momo was the pacer, and so he had to keep up a steady and unflagging maximum speed on his broom. Three hours and twelve minutes of flight from their Austrian origin should bring them directly over Nurmengard… but only if Momo kept at top speed.

Clouds blew past, above and below. A dense floor of puffy cumulonimbus anvils and a wispy ceiling of cirrus scratchings. Hig wondered if you could practice neladoracht from _within_ the clouds, and if so, what their fortunes would be today. This would be a day of beginnings and endings… but whose beginning, and whose ending?

They were something like twenty thousand feet above the ground, breathing easily and staying warm with magical assistance, but Hig was still relieved when Momo brought his broom to a swift halt. Most of the Americans overshot him and had to swing back around. They gathered around Momo, many flexing stiff fingers or shifting in their perches.

Two groups of six separated out from the rest, sorting themselves into Aleph Group and Beth Group. The others divided themselves into groups of twelve: Gimel and Daleth Groups. It was difficult to speak - something about the way the sound traveled through the intervening air between two Bubblehead Charms distorted it badly - but it had all been arranged beforehand at Dumbledore's direction. The Americans were here to destroy the Dogs, and so very much depended on their success.

At Hig's hand signal, all four groups shifted their positions and began swooping downwards in widespread formations, and the assault was on.

It took about fifteen minutes to descend. Several of them kept up protection spells, while others worked on keeping them as hidden as possible, while still others tried to pry a clear way through the detectors as they were encountered. They met success in all three tasks - not surprising, considering the assembled might of the American expeditionary force and their careful preparation for the day's attack.

Soon, Nurmengard was in sight, jutting into the sky at them like an accusing finger. The fortress was a single thick tower of black stone, square and solid, topped with a ziggurat. It was built into the face of a cliff, overlooking wide plains of grass. Giant natural statues of karst from Bükk sat lumpily in the fields around Nurmengard; the bulbous grey rock formations might normally have been beautiful, but in this context they seemed eerie and organic.

Hig's gaze was drawn to a sky-platform that hung in the air over the fortress. There was a guard, and Hig saw when the man noticed them. Curses rained down and took the sentry down, but not before he raised the alarm. That was all right, though. That was the plan.

Within a few minutes they were within a hundred yards of Nurmengard, and the guards - the Hírnökei - were pouring out. The four squads separated, moving to assigned places. Gimel Group and Daleth Group (Hig's own) engaged. They swooped in and out, diving as if they were Seekers, and dodged curses. The Americans concentrated on their defenses, working together to support shields. As was usual, each of them had paired off with an attacker in that odd instinctive way that happened during a battle, and the matches appeared to be even ones for the most part. Stunners whipped up and down, and a few found their marks. When the Americans were able, they cast _Deprimo_ on the ground around their attackers, trying to disrupt footing and generate mayhem, and several of the witches in Gimel also began emptying out mokeskin pouches full of Bluebell Flames. The Hírnökei spent some time in attacking with _Fumos_ and other gaseous effects, perhaps not realizing their attackers had Bubblehead Charms on or perhaps hoping to disrupt their vision, before settling down to more traditional stunners. They had the red handprint insignia of the Veres Kezek on their robes, so perhaps they were too used to murdering Muggles: the "Red Hands" had been last deployed to Poland, as far as Hig knew, and they had left that area a bloody ruin.

Meanwhile, Aleph and Beth went to the side of Nurmengard that rose straight from the cliff below. Hig saw them swoop away from the corner of his eye as he swerved his broom to avoid a curse. No defenders could come out on that side to try to curse them, and there were no windows. As long as they kept very low and close to the wall, they'd be almost completely obscured. Nurmengard was magnificent and terrifying, but it was not originally designed to be a military base, and its design had shortcomings. Aleph and Beth were trying to take advantage of that to breach the fortress walls, as though they intended to storm the fortress by that route.

Fifteen minutes later, which seemed like an eternity of swerving and casting and screaming, Aleph and Beth Groups both flew back into sight, soaring up from below the cliff's edge to catch the defenders by surprise. They took down three or four, although that still left at least twenty.

This was supposed to be the signal for Gimel to disengage, but they'd already lost five of their number. Gimel's leader, Momo, shot out red sparks as he flew. He corkscrewed to avoid a cascade of curses from the duo of Hírnökei that he had been fighting, and the red sparks pinwheeled out behind him, flittering brightly. It was the signal for Daleth to take Gimel's place. Hig immediately broke off the fight, along with the seven remaining members of Daleth Group. From wherever they were on the battlefield, they flew to Nurmengard's roof.

There were still two guards there, firing at the attackers; Grindelwald was cautious. Hig and several others on Daleth flew up the wall, holding tight to its side. They were to the top and over the edge before the guards could react. One brandished his wand and shouted, "Állj!" Hig thought that meant "stop." He did not oblige.

It wasn't a pretty fight - at least one of the guards was unusually skilled, firing curses with remarkable rapidity, while the other guard was actually willing to cast the Killing Curse. Even in war, that was unusual, and despite outnumbering the guards four to one, Hig lost another of his soldiers before it was done.

Hig assessed Daleth Group quickly. Seven total, including himself. Almost all Westphalians, including Tineagar, Sammy Shohet, and three others. One Argentine had also made it to this point: a skinny and handsome bald man with a toothbrush mustache. Hig couldn't remember his name - the chaos had cleared it right out of his head. Didn't matter.

They were inside in moments. Dumbledore had been able to tell them about much of the layout - who knew how he'd found out - and so they knew that it was only a short flight of stairs down to a large and defensible storage room. There was a door, but it was unenchanted, and so Hig's group blew it apart and stormed in. There was no one else there, although surely that would soon change. The outside war and the diversionary attacks at the base of the fortress might have given them some breathing room to breach, but there was a limit to how effective that could be. It was the best advantage that highly mobile attackers could wield against stationary defenders, but the Hírnökei were here in force: perhaps the whole of the Veres Kezek and maybe another squad like the Záh Kardja, besides.

Hig, the Argentinian, and Shohet took up guarding position at the other door, reinforcing it and putting up hasty wards. Tineagar and the other four knelt and touched their wands to the fitted stone underfoot. They put their free hands on their neighbors' shoulders, so that the five of them were interlocked in a pentagon. They began casting.

Nurmengard was harnessed to a ley line, and that power fairly thrummed through the building. It was a mighty work, enacted by one of the most powerful wizards in the world and his ablest lieutenants, but it was also limited. Almost all of the ley energy went into the enchantments that prevented time-turning, apparating, and any transfiguration of the fortress walls. It was a seat of power and a prison… but it was no Wizengamot or Qufu. It had weaknesses.

There was shouting from the other side of the door in angry Hungarian. "Dögölj meg! Rothadjanak ki az anyád szemei!" Hig didn't understand much of it… definitely ordering him to die like an animal, and something about his mother. Curses smashed into the door, along with disenchantments. The wood glowed red in spots, and blackened in others, but Shohet countered with a Flame-Freezing Charm, and Hig put up another _Colloportus_. They needed to hold for at least a few minutes, but it was just going to get harder with every second.

"Guests are knocking!" Hig shouted at the quintet kneeling in the room behind him, as he froze the door hinges in place with _Immobulus _to stop a Hírnöke from blasting them free. There was no reply, and he probably shouldn't have said anything. If they could hear him, they could hear the curses, anyway.

"A nagyobb jó érdekében!" came the cry from the other side of the door. Their slogan, which every combatant knew by now: "for the greater good."

There was silence from the other side of the door, so Hig and Shohet simultaneously sealed off any cracks above, below, or through the door with an immediate and hastily conjured wall of iron. If your opponent was silent, then they were probably transfiguring something nasty that would drown you in your own blood with noxious gas.

They never found out if they'd been right, or if the Hírnökei were just deciding what to try next, because Tineagar and the other four suddenly succeeded in charming the floor beneath them. One moment, the seven members of Daleth Group were trying to guard a door, and the next… well, it was as though the floor dropped right out from under them without actually moving. The Butterball Charm was weak, but it was enough so that all seven of them and all of the storage lockers in the room slipped right through a floor that was suddenly too liquid to support them. There was a tremendous crash and painful thump as everything and everyone in the room dropped down through seven feet of fitted stone right into the room below.

This was their objective. A direct fight to bring them to this point would have taken hours and gone through three defensive chokepoints, if they could have done it at all. Dumbledore had said that a quick swim would be easier, and he had been right. He had also been right about what was in the room: seven orange crystal balls, spangled with glowing red stars. Satomi's Dogs, spoken of in legend and acquired by Grindelwald at a terrible cost.

Dumbledore was wrong about one thing, though. He'd said that Grindelwald would trust no one with access to this room, but there were three people waiting there.

One of the defending Hírnökei was crushed by a storage locker, hammered into the stone wetly, but the others barely even paused in their surprise. Instinct took over, and the defenders - Záh Kardja, as Hig had thought - attacked. They got off three curses in a matter of moments, while Hig was still struggling to find his wand in a slurry of liquid stone.

"_Stupefy! Stupefy!"_

"_Avada Kedavra!"_

Shohet fell, stunned and then murdered in quick succession. The Argentinian fell stunned. Hig found his wand, as did another member of Daleth, but it was still too slow.

"_Stupefy!"_

"_Stupefy! Stupefy!"_

The Latinate curses had the raw accent of Hungarian, but they were no less effective. Attackers dropped stiffly to the ground. By his count, only Hig was left. Still, only one person was needed to smash these damn crystal balls. He raised his wand and successfully cursed one of the two defenders, "_Stupefy!", _and then turned his wand to cast again in quick succession.

Not quick enough. The other Hírnöke hit him with an _Immobulus _in the same instant, and Hig felt his body stiffen. He leaned to the side, caught in an awkward position with one arm thrust forward, and felt himself tilt until he came to a rest against the wall, still upright. The Hírnöke must be a Legilimens, and want quick answers, Hig thought, cursing inwardly. He was not a Occlumens, and couldn't close his eyes while frozen.

The Hírnöke stalked over to him. She was a nasty-looking woman. Not that Hig thought he was any prize, but this witch had long curving scars all across her face. They looked like punishment, but she had the sword emblem of the Záh Kardja: they might be a point of pride.

"Véget vetnénk minden szenvedésnek. Megállítanátok minket? Bolondok," she spat at him through cleft lips. He had not the faintest idea what that meant, and he couldn't have answered if he'd wanted to. His heart sank. If Satomi's Dogs remained intact, then everything was lost.

"_Expelliarmus!" _called a voice Hig recognized as Tineagar's.

He'd miscounted.

The Hírnöke's wand was ripped from her fingers and soared over to Tineagar, who was still rising to her feet. The American snapped it neatly out of the air, and darted her wand in Hig's direction just long enough to _Innervate _him. Hig went sprawling against the wall, choking on a magically-sustained breath.

"Hig, you okay?" Tineagar called, leveling her wand back on the Záh Kardja.

"Yes," he gasped. "Don't wait, just do it _now!_" Every second they delayed was another second that Grindelwald was channeling power through these crystals. Hig didn't understand how it worked - he suspected that no one but Dumbledore and Grindelwald could have even hazarded a guess - but they were some vital part to Grindelwald's invincible strength. This was April 30th, and every part of the plan had to go correctly. It was a masterpiece of strategy and tactics, and Hig had been left in awe when Momo and Dumbledore had devised it, but it would all fail unless they destroyed Satomi's Dogs. No time for discussion.

"_Reducto!_" cast Tineagar, leveling her wand at one of the Dogs. It exploded into pinkish glass dust as the blue bolt struck it, destroyed in a moment. Tineagar paused to gather her strength into her tall and thin body, then moved from one Dog to the next, destroying each of the seven in turn, as quickly as she could.

Above them, Hig heard an explosion. But it didn't matter that the rest of the attackers were soon to be storming down upon them, since Tineagar had just turned and obliterated the last of the crystal balls. Hig readied himself, even as the Hírnöke snarled something completely foreign, heavy with bitterness. "Láttuk a jóslatokat és tudjuk, hogy még győzni fogunk. Lesz egy ember akit a villám megjelölt és ő kioltja majd a csillagokat."

Tineagar cut off any more chatter from the Hungarian with a curt stunner, then turned to Hig. "We did it."

"Yes. But it will, I think, be the last thing we do." Hig moved to a corner of the room. They'd have to drop down to get him, and he'd get a clear shot at the first one at least. He wished they had the time and strength to revive their frozen friends, but that would just leave them unable to defend themselves when the attack came.

As she mimicked him and moved to a different corner, Tineagar said, "It was worth it." She glanced at the stunned enemies. "I can't abide this nonsense about the ends justifying the means… about how they want to fix everything, so all the murder and madness is worth it." Tineagar raised her wand, and set her features grimly. "I don't care what kind of good you think you're _going_ to do, and I don't care what kind of person you think you are. It's your actions that matter, not your goals. To the pit with tyrants and all their people."

Her kind of irreducible skepticism had its uses. He shouldn't have been so hasty to judge her. Not that it mattered, now.

"Hello? Reg? Sammy?"

Hig blinked. He called up, surprised, "Momo?"

"Yes!" called his ally. "Get up here - we can't block the corridor much longer! We need to form a line of defense!"

But before he'd even finished speaking, Hig and Tineagar were beginning to _Innervate _the fallen (except for poor Shohet) as quickly as they could manage. That wasn't very quickly at all, given their exhaustion, but it was fast enough that six witches and wizards were able to join their comrades before the Hírnökei could break through to them.

The Americans' blood was up, and they roared their anger when the Hírnökei came - the remains of Veres Kezek and Záh Kardja. The Hírnökei shouted their own fanatical screams in return. And there was war. Bloody and bitter war, fought in the halls of Nurmengard and atop its battlement. Many died that day, and others would long bear the curse scars for years to come.

You probably know the rest of the story - or at least, you know the romantic parts about Dumbledore and Grindelwald, and how ambition soured into madness, and love curdled after a single tragic accident. Certainly, you know about the great duel between the two. It is said to be the greatest duel ever yet fought, justly citing the long hours over which it ceaselessly raged, the unstoppable force of Dumbledore's skill, and the immovable object of Grindelwald's defenses.

Grindelwald held the Elder Wand, and was sustained by Satomi's Dogs, and guarded by the Iron Halo. While it is known that he stole the Elder Wand from Mykew Gregorovitch, it is not yet known how he came by his other great devices. But they were all powerful, and they preserved him against all ills, like an unbreachable barrier a hundred metres high.

There are twenty-eight books about Grindelwald's War, seven books about the rivalry and lives of Dumbledore and Grindelwald, and three books just about that single duel. And yet it is certain that he would never have fallen, Dumbledore notwithstanding - _all else_ notwithstanding - had the Americans not succeeded in breaching Nurmengard and destroying Satomi's Dogs.

Reg Hig learned something about Limpel Tineagar that day. He learned about her steel, and he learned her value. And Hig took her words about the "greater good" to heart, too. He would remember them.


	14. Opposition

_To understand the object of an obscure plot, observe its consequences and ask who might have intended them._

\- Lord Voldemort

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_Research continues at quite a satisfactory pace. You were correct, sir, to tell me that I would find no challenge. The techniques of Muggle science are not so complicated, and mostly rely on only a few simple procedures: make observations, guess what's happening, and then try to prove yourself wrong. It has been much more unpleasant to deal with the Unspeakables, the Muggles, and particularly the Lovegood girl. She has risen quite above her station, and it will be very nice to put her back in her place someday, before she gets hurt by her own arrogance._

_I wish that our results had more practical application. The Umbridge Snare is a useful plant for spell research in the future, I admit to that. A laboratory set within a solarium where the vines are growing in abundance would be an excellent place for inquiries into the most delicate charms, where no interference could be tolerated from local warding. But time spent on that research was time we could have spent on more important things, like weapons. Once everyone and everything are sorted out, and there is no more nastiness, then we'll have time for foolish little plants._

_Still, in the hopes that it may prove of use, I have left detailed notes and a mokeskin pouch with a live sample of the Umbridge Snare in the usual location, as well as one of the magic detectors we have developed. I look forward to the day when we will be able to settle all unpleasantries for good. I am nearly out of one-time pads; please provide more. All my best to your lovely mother and Mr. Shacklebolt._

\- Dolores Umbridge, from a letter to Draco Malfoy

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

On the first stone pedestal: "Change my beginning, and subtract my end and all color, and chase me away for good."

On the second stone pedestal: "Grindelwald's fall less Urg's fall less price of Tower's rise."

On the third stone pedestal: "What have I got in my pocket?"

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

Hermione looked at the three pedestals and their riddles. She thought, _They're not even being subtle about this. This doesn't make any sense._

_I notice I am confused._

She turned to the three witches standing beside her. "This is an obvious trap, right? They hung a Slytherin tapestry in front of their secret entrance and wrote three entrance riddles that any Muggleborn Ravenclaw would be able to answer given enough time, even if they didn't have bubblers capable of calling aurors in the Hogwarts library." _Or capable of contacting Harry, if it's an emergency and they make the appropriate arrangements_. "The Malfoys are not stupid or obvious. And this isn't some sort of double-bluff where we're meant to think it's so obvious that it can't be real, since there're only a few people who might think of that."

Hermione spoke to Tonks, directly. "We've called in the cavalry. We're not going in until they get here, first of all, even if we solve these riddles. In the meantime, take Hyori and go back outside… look for anything unusual. No, wait. Look for anything unusual, and if you don't find anything, _take a really close look at all the usual things_."

She paused, on the verge of contradicting herself because _maybe that was what they wanted her to do, and there would be an ambush in here or out there or_…

"Wait a second."

_Stop. You can afford to take the time to think about this for a minute. Any trap that relies on us being right here is one that could have been laid anywhere, including the tavern's main room, and there would be no way to predict when exactly we would be here. We're probably not in immediate danger. Stop and think, don't just react._

_This setup has been clever and erudite, but controlled. They already have some way to control the redcaps, and the little monsters weren't that dangerous - blunt trauma against a gang of witches and a wizard, plus me? Well, and Urg, but still… if you want to make a deadly trap, then you fill that hole with acid-spitting spiders or vermicious knids or whatever. Or just a bomb, for that matter, these days... _

Hermione felt like events were out-of-control… like there were hidden forces just beyond the edge of her understanding. It was like playing a game she didn't understand… there was some sort of pattern taking place according to unknown rules, but she couldn't make a move when she was unable to perceive the goals.

_So why the goons, the redcaps, and now the riddles?_

_Oh._

" 'The first letter of the name has been uttered...' " she said, distantly.

"I think I know what -" Tonks began.

Hermione cut her off, snapping back to the situation. "No, don't. Sorry. And forget what I said a moment ago. Sorry, but it's important. We're leaving." _If the trigger to the next level of this trap is auditory, we don't need to be chatting about the riddles right here. We should have already been out of here._

Tonks didn't look offended, but instead grinned hugely. "Ahhh… you figured something out, didn't you?" Esther scowled at her, and put a finger to her lips.

Hyori stepped out of the Actually Quite Clever Trap Room cautiously, wand high. The pub was just like they left it, and they stood to one side of the wreckage after a cautious scan of the room.

As they walked out, warily and quickly, Tonks' hair shortened and turned pale blonde. "Do tell me," she said, with a deeper voice than usual, "how you have seen through my plottings and plannings, you bloodmud girl."

Hermione didn't answer, but did smile. As they stepped out of the Armin Arms, she glanced around quickly. No one in sight.

"Tonks, do you remember how either of the men at the table inside looked?" _Damn, why did we send them to the Tower? Should we call and get them to show us?_

"Pretty near," Tonks said. "I have a good memory for faces. So what's up?" Her own was already broadening and coarsening, pores on her nose widening and eyes developing heavy bags.

"One, two, three, four," Hermione counted. "What comes next?"

"Five," Hyori answered.

"No. But if you wanted to get someone to say something, that would be the way to do it. Especially if what really came next was '_Pequod_ turnip' or something else impossible to just guess," Hermione said. She indicated the Armis Arms with one gauntlet-golden finger. "This is a trap."

"Not a good enough one," Esther said, scowling.

"No, the very best," Hermione said, shaking her head. "If you're not looking for it, you'll never find it. If you find it, you'll either be stunned and memory-charmed, or beaten unconscious and memory-charmed…"

"And if you make it through both," Tonks said, "Then there's a very obvious next step with schoolchild riddles. And writing on the parchment turns you into a newt or something."

"Yes, precisely, the next step is way _too_ obvious! A 'textbook secret entrance.' It would get most people, especially people ready to complete an expected pattern: defeat the boss and solve the riddle, and then, _voila_!" She swept her arm around. "Only I bet this _voila_ is a stunner or memory-charm. It's like a story I once read, about a detective who thinks he's found a pattern."

"I think you're right," Esther said.

"But I think that this goes another level deeper. When I imagine myself trying to design this whole trap, I think about how anyone with _serious _sense isn't going to take the bait. They're going to do the smarter thing. What we did. What I did, without thinking. Thugs, redcaps, riddles... and one final trap."

"Call for backup," said Esther, nodding. "But why assume it goes any deeper? Maybe you're just smarter than everyone else."

"The redcaps were clever and showed considerable thought… it seems unlikely our opponent is at that level. And anyway, we don't lose anything by waiting for the backup and taking one small precaution," Hermione replied, shrugging. "But here is my prediction: the Council - or whoever answers the request of our four when they get there - is going to send just a few people."

"For this? When we were just attacked?" Tonks said, patting his round belly with one hand idly, while scratching his unshaven chin with the other. He pulled off his gauntlet, feeding it into his pouch.

"They'll have a plausible story," Hermione said confidently. "And if I'm wrong…" She shrugged. "We lose nothing and I just look a little silly. I can live with that."

Hyori and Esther were already nodding in agreement with her judgment. Tonks shrugged.

_I have been stupid_, Hermione thought. _I didn't understand the game or the moves or anything about what's going on. But there is one question I can ask: who am I playing against?_

"Then there's just one thing to do first," Hermione said.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

Simon, Susie, Urg, and Charlevoix did not return with anyone. They didn't return at all.

Instead, thirty minutes after the four had been dispatched to the Alþing, there was a trio of popping sounds in the street. It was scant yards from where Hermione stood with Hyori and Esther.

A bloody and battered Limpel Tineagar and two American aurors had appeared. The robes on Tineagar's spidery limbs were not simply worn: they were bloody rags. Her breasts were exposed through the shredded front, and long cuts arced across her chest and neck. There was a red stump where her left ear had once been. Her wand was in her hand, and her teeth were bared.

The two aurors with Tineagar were in worse shape. Hermione didn't recognize them. The one on the left was slightly taller, with a hook nose and long hair in a braid. His clothing had been burned, and the fabric along his left side was black and stiff with intermingled ash and the scorched gore of his own damaged flesh. He stood unconcerned and cool, wand at alert as well, and his eyes already flickering around them. His companion was average in height, with thick hands. His face was bruised and bloody, and he looked to have been beaten - his eyes were purpling and swelling enough that it looked as though he could barely see. But even he was ready for a fight, with the hardened look of a man who'd fought dangerous creatures and frenzied Euphorics.

These Americans were made of stern stuff.

"Councilor!" Hermione called, running towards them, dropping her shield. Her long strides outpaced Esther and Hyori easily, and she was at Tineagar's side in a moment. "Jesus! What happened?!"

Tineagar ignored Hermione's instinctive Muggle curse of surprise, and used one hand to gather up the remains of her robes in front of her into a bunch, to cover herself. The other hand kept her wand up, as the Westphalian swept it over the street, looking for a threat. "Ms. Granger, are you all right? Were you attacked?" Her voice was urgent and hoarse.

_What happened? I wanted to flush out my opponent… did someone attack the Alþing?! _An attack on such a scale wouldn't just bring a further investigation… it might bring a war. And had the others been caught up in it? Were the other Returned all right?

Hermione touched her wand to the witch's shoulder. "There was an ambush here, yes. _Vulnera Sanentur_. _Reparo_. Did you see my people? Simon, Susie, Urg, and Charl -"

"We must get inside," Tineagar said, cutting her off. "It's not safe out here. Oh Merlin… we've been attacked. It was Malfoy. They had Blastbombs…"

Hermione felt her stomach turn, but she turned to glance at Hyori and Esther, indicating with a nod of her head that they should help the two aurors. She herself gave support to Tineagar, putting an arm around the witch's waist. Tineagar looked a little better now that Hermione had healed her a bit and repaired her garments, but this was disaster. Should they portkey out? No, not without finding out what happened to the others.

All six of them rushed inside the Armin Arms, one of the aurors bringing up the rear, his wand out and ready for trouble.

"Wait," Hermione said, as they re-entered the pub. This place had been trapped - was _still_ probably trapped - and it was a terrible place to take shelter. A low mound of grey bubbled foam still sat like a giant mushroom in the center of the room, studded with stunned redcaps, and one of the wizards who'd ambushed them lay slumped along the wall. They needed to at least Apparate to a safehouse, if not clear over to London. She hadn't been thinking clearly - there was not the slightest reason to stay here. She'd bubble for reinforcements and

"_Stupefy."_

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

Colors returned first, swirling in smears. There was a rubble of sounds, meaningless burbles that she knew must be words. It was an unknowable time before the colors became shapes, and the sounds became words.

"...say who it was. If it was a Brit, we'll need to take action, soon. But we're all set up here, already… we shouldn't move them outside of the wards unless we absolutely must. Only our trusted people even know about this place, and I don't think anyone knows they're here."

_Stunned. They stunned me._

It couldn't have been long ago… she didn't stun easily and it wore off quickly. Something about the regeneration… enchanted cells were replaced with new ones at a significant rate, maybe - it was hard to keep her down. Although she still couldn't move a muscle. They'd done something else while she was out.

It was Tineagar speaking.

_Well, I wanted to flush out my opponent. And I _said _that this would happen… a "plausible story." Why didn't I stop and think? I made a prediction… why didn't I stick to it? I predicted _exactly this very thing_, and I still fell for the trick. Just because they roughed themselves up a little bit, I acted according to a script. Stupid, stupid. Is Tineagar with Malfoy? Is she acting alone? Is this a move by the Council?_

Hermione strained herself to move, willing her toes to wiggle. Nothing happened. She put a convulsive mental effort into it. _Move move move MOVE. _Not a twitch. She couldn't even figure out what they'd done to her. There were a half-dozen spells that rendered the victim immobile.

"Bring them here. Do it directly," Tineagar said.

A male voice answered her. One of the aurors? "Yes, ma'am. It'll take me a few minutes to bring all four of them, though. We can't Apparate out, but -"

"No, no," Tineagar said. "I'll hook up the Floo here, and you can bring them directly. I know the agenspræc to Greater Boston, and I can link it up downstairs in no time. We won't leave a trace."

_A trace…_

Far too late, Hermione realized: _I could have checked for fingerprints on that jar of Floo powder. I am _stupid_._

Tineagar went on. "Go and wait in my office. You and Horvath keep anyone from going in, and send the four Brits through, once I signal you through the Floo. Stun the Goddess again before you go. Better safe than sorry."

"_Stupefy."_

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

Colors… shapes...

Hermione was awake again. She blinked, then did it again. She could move. She was lying on her side, on the floor. Somewhere.

Her left arm, right leg, and her sides tingled. She recognized the sensation of new-healed wounds. They'd found her implants and taken them out. It made sense they might find the Ultimate Ulna and the portkeys, but how had they found the batballs? She and Harry had tested them, and she'd thought that only the Tower's magic detector was sensitive enough to find them.

Hermione glanced around. They were in a brick-walled room with a low ceiling. There was a long and narrow table with a dozen stools around it. Her belongings were resting on the table. Pouches, two wands, portkeys, batballs, gauntlet, and other miscellaneae. Hyori and Esther were along one wall, still stunned, lying on top of each other unceremoniously. Next to them was the figure of one of the drunks who'd ambushed them, sitting up and leaning against the wall, but still apparently unconscious. Limpel Tineagar and one of the aurors - the one with the hook nose and braid - were standing next to a fireplace. Tineagar was bent down slightly, and had her wand resting on the stone of the fireplace. She was muttering to herself. The auror was watching Hermione. He smirked when he saw her looking.

This was some sort of meeting room or local headquarters. There was stacked parchment, boxes of potion components, and other odds and ends. The local meeting place for the Malfoy faction? She didn't see anything to hint at a larger purpose.

She shifted a bit. She was no longer paralyzed, but she was bound tightly in place. Looking down, she saw tight black cords wrapped around the length of her body. Her arms were pinned against her so firmly that she couldn't do more than wiggle her fingers. Her legs were cocooned with the black cording. _Incarcerous _ropes, conjured on her multiple times.

"Cou -" Hermione's voice warbled. She swallowed and tried again. "Councilor Tineagar, have you lost your mind?"

"Ms. Granger, you're awake." Tineagar didn't turn around, but continued casting, wand on the fireplace. "I have some questions for you. Just one moment, and I'll be right with you."

"Councilor," Hermione said. She was anxious over her Returned - _please be okay, please be okay _\- and angry over the betrayal and utterly confounded about this situation, and she let all of that emotion into her voice. "Turn around."

Tineagar lifted her wand and straighted, turning to face her captive. Her face was sour, mouth tight.

"You're in command of yourself," Hermione said, eyeing her. "This is you." It wasn't a question.

"Yes, Ms. Granger," Tineagar said, sighing. "This is me. And believe me when I say that I am sorry about this. This was not…" She paused. She had always looked pale, but now she looked even whiter than usual. "There was no alternative. And things could be much worse. You and your people are all safe. You will be memory-charmed, and no worse the wear. We'll add a few things, of course… to help you serve the right cause."

Tineagar shook her head, wonderingly. "I thought that they were being paranoid when they said that anyone could get past our traps here… the goons, the redcaps, and the riddles. But I see that they were right, and that's why we've got a captive Goddess. But you won't be harmed."

Hermione didn't say anything. She just glowered at Tineagar.

The American went on. "We would already have done those alterations and let you go, in fact, except that two of my men are missing." She gestured with her wand at the unconscious drunk leaning against the wall. "I need to know where you have them."

Hermione shifted herself so that she rolled onto her back, and then sat up. Her bonds tightened at the motion, and she felt them strain and bite into her. She ignored the discomfort, which was trivial. The auror was already covering her with his wand, and Tineagar lifted her own slightly.

_Do I tell her that she's already lost? I need to make sure they don't do anything desperate… what would serve my purpose better: confidence or fear? Hm. Tineagar has been very contrary, which might come from arrogance or insecurity. Reportedly a high achiever, but that doesn't provide evidence either way. Hard to say which would succeed. I should start with intimidating her, though. It's easy to go from intimidation to cowering, but a lot harder to go the other way._

Hermione could probably kip up from this position, but it would be difficult. Better not to risk her dignity yet. "I don't see any reason to tell you that."

Tineagar rubbed her eyes with her free hand. "I'm not going to pretend that I'm willing to torture you or yours. Even if I would do that sort of thing, I've seen your mettle… I don't think you'd break. And I know for a mortal fact that none of your insane little group would make a peep."

_Scruples. In someone willing to murder an innocent like Tarleton? Unless she didn't order that, or she's not the boss, or it was a mistake. She's proudly taking an ethical stance, here… let's see if I can goad her into self-righteousness._

"You didn't… seem like you were that kind of person," Hermione said, cautiously. _ Be dumb, let her correct you and supply information. This has to be hard on her… push it. Tineagar's not a plotter, not subtle… she's a born lieutenant. A Gryffindor, not a Ravenclaw or Slytherin. _ "Not that we've known each other long, but when we were discussing Tarleton's murder - but wait, _you _were behind that… you were the one who killed him… you're a murderer..."

As Hermione pushed it a bit further with each phrase, probing for a response, she saw Tineagar's face twist in disgust at Hermione's fake process of "realization."

"That was the _Malfoys_, not us!" Tineagar said, her lip curling. The auror standing next to her walked across the room, separating himself from Tineagar. An abundance of caution… he wanted a clear shot and a crossfire on Hermione, just in case. He did not seem won over by Hermione's aura of innocence, even though she was bound and helpless and it should be accentuated. Maybe they'd discussed it while she was out.

So this was a Council stronghold, after all. That had implications. If Hermione escaped - no longer a safe assumption, now - she'd have to live in fear for her Returned, or else pit them against one of the most powerful magical organizations in the world. The Council of Westphalia was in effective control of more than one _government_. Or it could be war, if magical Britain acted to protect one of its most beloved popular figures. A magical world war.

Her dread of the possibilities must have shown on her face. Under the circumstances, it was probably easy to misinterpret.

"Yes, your friend, Draco Malfoy… he murdered that boy," Tineagar said. "He murdered his own _agent_. He must have known we'd discovered that the boy was an infiltrator. And that blood is on your hands, too."

"His own agent," Hermione repeated, slowly. "Tarleton was passing out information. That's why the Floo powder was in that room, even though there was a Flounder." She wriggled in place, trying to work some blood down to her bound extremities. The ropes were digging deeply into her.

Tineagar's eyes widened. "That is -... Merlin's beard, yes." Her eyes narrowed, and she stared suspiciously at Hermione. "You _are_ clever."

"Not so clever. Tarleton and Kemp… hah. I get it, now. Stupid of me - a British Muggleborn with a good education should have figured it out immediately. Stupid of _them_, for playing those risky games," Hermione said. She didn't clarify for Tineagar when the American witch looked puzzled. "Well, then. We're at an impasse. How about a trade?"

"I very much doubt you have anything to offer me, actually," Tineagar returned. "I want you to tell me where you have my men because it's the _right thing to do_. I have no choice but to wipe your memory of this whole debacle… my hands are tied. With or without them, you'll forget all of this. And wherever you've put my men, you've surely tied them up or caged them or something. If you don't tell me where they are, they'll be trapped wherever you have them, until they die."

_Do I tell her that they're already at the Tower? That there's no hope of keeping this affair a secret? What will her reaction be… will she act desperately? No. She's been through enough that she'll keep a cool head. But neither is she soft enough to surrender, once she finds that out._

_No, she'll wipe our memories. That will be the best course of action... it gives her deniability. No one will really want a war, so things will settle out with distrust. The Council's plan - whatever it is - will continue._

It was a pity she couldn't signal to her future self that she'd been memory-charmed. They'd probably put back all of her belongings, and her wounds would heal… she'd never even know that all this happened.

_Well, then. That leaves me no other alternatives but to act._

She glanced at the auror, who was standing across the room from her. The table was between them. All of her belongings were lying on it, including the gauntlet. It was facing away from her, and she wished she could burst free of her bonds and leap to it, sliding her hand right in and sweeping away Tineagar and the auror. But even she couldn't break this many _Incarcerous_ bonds.

So how could she do this? Two enemies, and she was unarmed. She gave herself another long second to think.

_Oh._

"They're in a secure location. My headquarters at Powis, in Britain. There's a portkey in my garments, here. You missed it. It looks like a piece of Drooble's Gum."

When Hermione said "garment," the Returned code word for "prepare for violence," she saw the "unconscious drunk" lying next to Hyori and Esther move his hand incrementally, sliding it behind his back. She knew there was a wand hidden there. Tonks was ready.

"Get it. Be careful," Tineagar ordered the auror. He didn't look like he needed to be warned. "If you try anything, remember your friends. No one wants them getting hurt in a scuffle."

"I don't want anyone getting hurt, ever," Hermione said, as the auror rounded the table and approached her, "But sometimes it's necessary."

"The ends justify the means?" Tineagar said, scornful.

"I recently fought off your swarm of bloodthirsty redcaps, and now you're getting ready to violate the memories of eight people, Councilor. I'm not sure you've taken the time to think through on your ethics, here." Hermione said, and she couldn't stop a laugh from escaping her lips. The auror in front of her kept his wand on her, carefully, as he approached. "Please be aware that this is probably your last chance to sort this out, before you go too far."

"My last chance to surrender, Ms. Granger?" Tineagar said, drily. "This is not a play."

"As I've occasionally had to remind a friend of mine, sometimes life imitates art," Hermione replied. "Kavo!"

The blast of wind from the gauntlet on the table behind the auror was immense, like a hurricane had been unleashed from a bottle. As the charger spent its contents, pressurized air was released all at once. In defiance of physics, the gauntlet didn't move in an equal and opposite way… but the auror certainly did. Caught full in the back, he was flung like a rag doll over Hermione's head and into the wall, smashing into it like an insect. His wand was blown away, to the far end of the room away from Tineagar. The auror actually hung upright for a moment, pinned to the brick wall by the concentrated gale that was blasting forth from the gauntlet. By the time the wind died away, Hermione had struggled to her feet with a graceful jackknife, and was hopping towards the fallen wand.

Tineagar raised her wand to attack Hermione in the same moment that Tonks raised his. The American must have seen the movement out of the corner of her eye, because she threw herself forward spastically, landing on her side. Tonks tried to track her dive, but his stunner missed Tineagar's back by what looked like centimeters.

"_Drysdory!" _Tineagar cast as she landed on the floor, pointing her wand at Tonks and swirling the tip. With a crackling sound, her wand seemed to be subsumed in a wooden pole that sprouted out from within it, covering it with dark wood in a fraction of an instant. The wood erupted forward, the end of the pole sharpening to a point as it did. The spear stabbed out at Tonks' stomach like a bolt of lightning. The British witch (wizard? Tonks was still disguised) was still seated, but he was able to jerk himself to the side, and the spear struck the wall. The tip exploded in splinters with the force of the attack.

Another spell of which she'd never heard, Hermione thought with surprise as she reached the auror's fallen wand. She threw herself onto it on her side, grasping for the end. Her hands were bound to her side, but her fingers were free. _Where are these spells coming from?_

Tonks raised his wand again to attack the American, but Tineagar brought her eight-foot spear-wand down on the metamorphmagus' wand arm with as much ease as if it was still eight inches of willow - it must have no weight to her - and deflected the attack before it could even come. Then the spear retracted as if it was shrinking, and erupted forth a second time like another flash of lightning. Tonks couldn't avoid it this time, and the splintered end buried itself in his stomach.

_No no no,_ Hermione thought, as she struggled the auror's wand into place and pointed it at herself. "_Finite Incantatem!" _she cast. But only the outermost layer of ropes vanished as Hermione's magic overcame it. She could have howled in frustration.

Tineagar moved her hand, again with remarkably little effort, and lifted her spear-wand over her head with a flicking gesture. Tonks was scraped up the bricks and then launched free, sailing into the opposite wall with a thud, unconscious. Blood trickled from his stomach, starting to pool on the floor.

Desperate, Hermione pointed the auror's wand at herself again. She closed her eyes and turned her face away. There was probably a better solution than this but _she couldn't think of it_ and she had to _save Tonks_.

"_Confringo!"_

The explosive fire bit into her like some heat-toothed demon, and Hermione staggered from the pain that shocked through her. But the _Incarcerous_ ropes had been mostly blasted or burned away, and when she wrenched her arms and legs away from her body with desperate strength, the remaining bonds snapped. She was free.

Tineagar's spear-wand seemed to have no limits on its range, however. At the moment that Hermione freed herself, she could see the wood retract and burst forth again as Tineagar brought it to bear on the Goddess. It smashed into Hermione's hand with incredible force. The appropriated wand wasn't knocked free from Hermione's inhuman grip, but the blunt and bloody splintered pole broke it against her palm in two places. It probably also broke a few bones, although the pain of the Blasting Curse drowned out anything else.

On the next attack, as the spear receded and erupted at her again, Hermione was ready. "Hok!" she grunted, as she turned to the side and brought her bunched fingers down into the spear, as it shot past her. Her blow carried through the wood, snapping it as cleanly as if her hand was a cleaver.

Tineagar gestured dexterously with the hand in which she held the wand-spear, sweeping it to the side like a long club at Hermione's head. It moved with such speed that the pole whistled. But this was not an equal fight, and Hermione caught the pole in one palm. It was a toy to her. She yanked on it with trollish strength, hoping to catch Tineagar off-guard.

The American didn't even move, as the spell just fed four more feet of dark wood out of her hand. Frustrated, Hermione whirled in place and brought her foot up with another grunt, snapping the wood once more. This was physical combat now and Hermione still wasn't winning… where the hell had this woman learned to _fight_?!

"I wish we could work together, Ms. Granger," Tineagar called, as the wood drew back to her hand once more. She held it ready, a short length of pole ready to expand and strike.

"We could have, Councilor," Hermione said, hefting her own - non-magical - pole upright in her hands to the great banner position, ready to block an attack. She glanced at Tonks. He had regained consciousness, and was holding his hands over his stomach. Out of the fight, but he didn't look like he was in danger.

"I can't let the world end because of the Tower, nor can I let the villains win," the American said. Her thin face looked pained. "I didn't want to… Reg and I have been through so much. I didn't want it to be like this. I didn't want to be against him, not after standing at his side so many times over the years. I didn't want to be against _magic. _But there's no choice. I won't accept evil, and I won't accept destruction."

..._what?_

"But if you're… wait, if you're not working for Malfoy _or_ Hig _or _Harry... Councilor, _what is going on?!_" Hermione said, desperately.

"You're just a pawn in this game, Goddess," Tineagar said, and now she sounded as though her heart was breaking. "And in the end, there are really only two sides. The Council and the Tower and the Ten Thousand and every other Thing, even Malfoy's nasty little Honourable… you're all just doing evil, no matter what you say you want. The Three are the world's only hope. You're a pawn, and you're on the wrong side."

_But if she's not here for the Council… if Hig doesn't know…_

"Pawns are powerful when in force," said Councilor Reg Hig, as he dismissed his Disillusionment. He was standing at the door with a dozen - no, two dozen aurors visible in a crowd behind him. His voice was strained, but firm. "And really, you're doing Ms. Granger a disservice if you call her anything but a queen."

There was a tingle over Hermione's skin, as someone applied a Anti-Disapparition Jinx.

Tineagar's face contorted with emotion. "Reg, you have to -"

"Take her into custody," Hig said to the aurors behind him. "Take everyone into custody, and we'll sort out the truth of this mess afterward."

"Damn you. _Damn you, Granger_," Tineagar snarled. "I have never seen anyone struggle so hard to help _break the world_. You snooped until you broke apart everything I'd built here, stumbling around like a blind mule_._"

She twitched her fingers, and the wood encasing her wand disintegrated into sawdust, drifting down from where the pole had once jutted. Hermione felt the snapped-off length in her own hands vanish, as well. "And damn you too, Reg, if you can't see the truth. If you can't trust me. If you're joining these heralds of the end."

"You can't -" Hig began, but Tineagar stabbed her wand at the ceiling without another word.

"_Alogofoti!_" cast the witch. There was an orange flash as though from a fiery dawn, and a horse of flames burst through the wall. It left no marks and brought no heat, crossing the room with soundless hoofbeats as swift as the flicker of a candle, and swept Tineagar out of sight in the span of a breath. She was gone.

Hermione rushed to Tonks' side, stopping only to snatch up her wand from beneath the table where it had fallen. The metamorphmagus had passed out again. "You need to get someone on Bill Kemp, immediately. And four of my people are -"

"It's all right, Ms. Granger," Hig said. He had staggered over to the table and was leaning on it. Aurors bustled in behind him, checking on Hyori, Esther, and the fallen auror. "We have the other two traitors in shackles already - the auror and young Tarleton's friend, Bill Kemp - and your Returned are unharmed." He rubbed his unshaven face with his hands, sighing heavily. His hair was mussed; unkempt black licks. "I'm sorry it took us so long to get here… we might have taken her, if we'd gotten in sooner. There's no excuse, since you gave me an hour's warning, but… well, the entrance was trapped."

For a while there, when she'd thought that the Council was behind this place, Hermione thought that it had been monumentally stupid to have time-turned back and sent a warning to Hig. But she'd thought that calling for back-up in the first place was the obvious thing to do, which meant she was probably acting predictably. So she'd had to assume that she was _expected_ to call for help from the nearest authority, and that her request would be intercepted. It cost nothing to be cautious, after all.

She'd time-turned back and gone herself to ask Hig for back-up, under cover of the Cloak of Invisibility. For a while, it looked like that had been a serious mistake… if it _had_ been the Council at work, all she would have done would be to give them more warning about how to trap her.

In retrospect, she should have had _everyone _go back even further and done some serious preparation. But hindsight was 20/20, and that sort of paranoia had costs. _Sorry, Alastor._

"Ah, yes, the riddles," Hermione said, glancing up at the Westphalian as she walked over to the table and got her pouch. She sent Tonks to the Tower, just to be safe. _Ker-chak. _"A tempting trap for a Ravenclaw, believe me. I wonder if they were written with Harry in mind, or me? 'Nogtail,' 'one eighty-five,' and 'a ring,' right? Did it knock you out?"

"Yes, all of us at a stroke," Hig said. He didn't seem embarrassed, only drained. "Who was… what is going on, Hermione?"

"I don't know. I had thought… I didn't know what to think," Hermione said. She approached the table, and sat down at one of the chairs. "We'll have to see if there's anything here to give us more of a clue. Councilor Tineagar said that Malfoy was behind the bombing, which makes sense. Tarleton was his agent, according to her. I think I understand what was going on, there." A quote from Lenin seemed appropriate, although the exact one escaped her at the moment. "But this room - this place - it didn't have anything to do with Malfoy. Tineagar didn't have anything to do with him."

Hig made a low sound of agreement in his throat. "He is persuasive, and he makes good points. I receive _Unbreakable Honour_, and it's made me think long and hard from time to time. But Malfoy argues from every perspective. It's like standing in a hailstorm with a drink: sometimes you get ice cubes, but a lot of the time it just hits you wrong. And Limpel and I…" He paused for a second. "We spent a long time fighting for the rights of Muggles and other Beings. Fighting for their right to exist, for a long time. It took thirty years before we had the votes in the Council. Even if we weren't talking about Malfoys - and Lucius Malfoy once _cursed me_ \- I don't think Limpel would be persuaded." He paused again, for a longer time, and sank down in another chair, across from Hermione. His face looked drawn, as if he'd aged ten years in the last ten minutes. "She was never easy to persuade."

"The Three," Hermione mused. "She said the 'Three' were the world's only hope."

Hig shook his head. "Which three? There's no triumvirate in the Council. There's a trio of representatives from the Sawad to the Confederation with whom Limpel and I have tangled, on occasion, but I hardly think she's suddenly been won over to their theocratic goals. Or are these three objects? There are many artifacts of legend that came in threes… the Cauldrons of the Sallowin Sisters, the Forged Halos, the Deathly Hallows... " He grimaced. "Who or what are we talking about?"

"I don't know," said Hermione. "For years, Harry and I have been wrangling with Draco and Narcissa over politics in Britain. And now we've been working hard to resolve our differences and misunderstandings with your Council and other Things." Hig didn't comment on her euphemistic summary of the global political struggle in which they had all been locked. "I thought we knew the players… I thought coming here, today, was about flushing out some minor intrigue. I thought there was one hand behind the bombing and the British spy following us and this place."

"Limpel told you that we knew Tarleton was a spy," Hig said. Hermione nodded. Hig went on: "We'd known for a while. He was part of an… information network within the Council. We like to keep track of what's happening in the world, as best we can. Tarleton worked with sorting through information about the Muggle world, and I noticed last year that we didn't seem to know as much as we should. Key facts about important people, particular documents… the picture was incomplete. I ran some tests, and we knew the information was coming in… but we didn't have it. It stopped at Tarleton. And he wasn't the only one."

"Bill Kemp, too," Hermione said. "Both of them hired two years ago. And they weren't just destroying information… someone else was getting it. They were handing it out through the Floo."

"Yes…" Hig said, slowly. He didn't ask how she knew these things, but there was a break in the despair on his face for a moment. He was impressed, she thought.

_Good. Yes... I shouldn't let this moment go to waste. We've brought this man from a certain enemy to an uneasy ally. The ground has shifted under his feet… I need to give him a firm hand on which to rely._

"We have Kemp in custody, and one of the aurors - the one who went back to the Alþing to get my people?" she asked. She drummed bright fingernails on the surface of the table in front of her, thoughtfully. _"We" have them in custody… not "you." We're working together._

"Yes," Hig said. The corner of his mouth twisted in the slightest of smiles, despite the circumstances. He knew what she was doing, she could see. He thought it was cute. Good.

"Then we have one of Malfoy's spies. And we have four of the agents of the, um, 'Three,' including the ones from the pub here. And we have this room and all of its clues. Those are clear paths to start figuring these things out, which is maybe the only good news out of all of this. Tineagar and the people here had spells I've never seen before… she teleported out of here without Apparating!"

Hig rose to his feet. "Yes. But Ms. Granger, you should know now: this doesn't mean that the Americas will enter into your Treaty. You might have won my trust, and my confidence in my own people might be… shaken. We might agree on many things, like Muggle rights and the status of Beings. But that doesn't mean that we can go so far as to allow Britain to place magical devices throughout the Americas, or to enact unknown rituals on Americans to change their bodies."

"Councilor Hig," Hermione said, standing up as well, "One of the great advantages of honesty is that you don't need to be afraid of closer scrutiny. We can work together to fight our common problems and advance our common interests. And maybe, in time, you'll see that the entire program is on the level. And if it isn't… well, a wise woman once said, 'that which can be destroyed by the truth should be.' If you find evil, I'll be standing right by you to stamp it out."

He put out his hand, and they shook.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_NOTE: Below are explanations for the riddle answers. If you didn't get them, or got a slightly different answer, don't feel bad. Any answer _at all _simply caused a stunning effect, so there was no "right answer." The only way to win was not to play._

"_Change my beginning, and subtract my end and all color, and chase me away for good."_

_Nogtail, minus its "end" is nog. Change the first letter to dog, and make sure it's white by taking away all color, and it can chase away nogtails. Only a pure white dog can do that, allegedly. It was an obscure bit of HP trivia, so I reminded you of it in Chapter 2._

"_Grindelwald's fall less Urg's fall less price of Tower's rise."_

_Grindelwald fell in 1945 (as we were reminded last chapter), and Urg fell in 1722 (as we were reminded three chapters ago), and 37 Death Eaters plus Voldemort died in 1992 to lay the foundation for the Tower's rise. Harry didn't kill all of them, but that's not common knowledge._

"_What have I got in my pocket?"_

_This is a direct reference to J.R.R. Tolkien's _The Hobbit_. Bilbo cheats during the riddle contest with Gollum. The answer is "a ring" - the One Ring, which he's found and taken. I did not remind you of _The Hobbit, _but you're a Muggle, so you have no excuse._


	15. Pip's Day Out

GRANGER ON AMERICAN TOUR: 'A LOVELY HOLIDAY IN THE STATES'

\- _Daily Prophet_ headline for March 14th, 1999

STATES IN TREATY TALKS

\- _Daily Prophet_ headline for March 16th, 1999

LONDON EUPHORIC RING EXPOSED

\- _Daily Prophet_ headline for March 17th, 1999

LINNAEAN LUNACY: LOVEGOOD ACCUSED OF SMUGGLING 4X BEASTS

\- _Daily Prophet_ headline for March 20th, 1999

TREATY FAILS IN USA: RISING SUPPORT FOR 'HONOURABLE'

\- _Daily Prophet_ headline for March 30th, 1999

AFRICAN SWEEP: NIGERIA, FREE STATES IN TREATY

\- _Daily Prophet_ headline for April 1st, 1999

BULSTRODE ARRESTED IN CONNECTION WITH DIAGON BOMBING

\- _Daily Prophet_ headline for April 2nd, 1999

BULSTRODE GOES BEFORE WIZENGAMOT: CARROW: 'SHALLOW POLITICAL PLOY'

\- _Daily Prophet_ headline for April 3rd, 1999

BULSTRODE RELEASED: N'GOMA: 'KNOWS NOTHING ABOUT ANYTHING.'

\- _Daily Prophet_ headline for April 4th, 1999

TOWER TO OPEN FOR SQUIBS

\- _Daily Prophet_ headline for April 5th, 1999

TREATY SURPRISE: WESTPHALIA REOPENS ISSUE WITH NEW DEMANDS

\- _Daily Prophet_ headline for April 5th, 1999

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_April 7th, 1999_

_5:30 a.m._

_Outskirts of Curd, Tipperary, Ireland_

Pip kept up a quick step as he walked down the winding path that led to Curd. He tried to look smart, with his head high and shoulders back. He was a representative of the Government of magical Britain and of the Tower, and he had to look the part. Considering how busy things were going to be back at the Tower, he should thank his lucky stars to be out on delivery duty, anyway.

He'd been here before, on similar errands. The cobblestone path was not very well-maintained, since it was only used by the relatively few wizards and witches who visited the city. You weren't allowed to Apparate or fly directly into Curd; you had to go to a "welcome platform" (a cleared dirt area a half-mile away from the city) and then walk down the "welcome path" (on which rough cobblestones you might stub your toe) through the "welcome gate" (which crawled with wards and precautions). Considering the names of everything, he thought sourly, it wasn't very ruddy welcoming at all.

There was a chill in the air at this early hour. It felt pleasant on Pip's face, since it didn't touch the rest of him thanks to a Warming Charm. It reminded him of something he could remember his dad liked to say, quoting from a book and tugging on his beard with solemnity: "There is no quality in this world that is not what it is merely by contrast." Pip felt vaguely guilty at the thought. He'd never been much for reading, and particularly not Muggle books. He really should try to read _something_ this month - a real book, not just _The Adventures of Martin Miggs, the Mad Muggle_. Wasn't there a new Lockhart out? He'd liked the vampire one.

Curd lay before him - the town of towers. Low sandstone buildings with sloping walls were all topped with at least one conical tower. None of the towers were very high. Pip supposed that was probably because the gobbies couldn't build Floo networks, and it would be a bother to go up and down a lot of stairs. Maybe that would change, soon.

Pip sighed as he marched down the path. The town looked like it had been made out of a child's toy blocks.

A few minutes along, he was finally nearing the outskirts. He passed a pair of guards sitting in a small pavilion next to the welcome gate, and nodded to them with great dignity as he passed through. The two goblins were armored in silver plate: cuirass, cuisses, and vambraces. They didn't wear any helmets, so he could see them grin horribly at him. Their short spears sat on a rack nearby, but they didn't even bother to get up. Maybe they recognized him - Pip had a bit of trouble telling goblins apart (except for Podrut in Material Methods, who had a distinctive notch in his right ear), but the goblins never seemed to have the same problem with humans.

Wait, should he have said something to them? He'd just nodded to them and hadn't said anything. They hadn't looked bothered, though. Just bored. But he didn't want them to think he was rude, or that the Tower was rude, or anything. J.C. had said that goblins valued truth more than anything, and that they were suspicious of politeness, but Pip thought that was probably just something they wanted everyone to think. It probably made people trust Gringott's more. Although J.C. did seem like she would know, as a senior auror - she was all sharp edges and grimness. Plus he'd heard that she had some gobbie blood. But that might just be one of the rumors probies passed around during training, on account of her wide mouth and the largish ears that poked out of her curly black hair, and because she was so skinny. It _could _be true, but there were rumors like that about everyone who was even a little different. Tall people had giantish ancestry, pretty people had veela ancestry, people with bad teeth had mermish ancestry… Silly, really. When he'd been stationed in Nurmengard, there had been a German auror with really red hair, and he'd heard someone whisper with complete seriousness that she had _phoenix _ancestry, which didn't even make any _sense_. That would have meant that someone had _been_ with a phoenix at some point, and then… what, hatched a baby with it? It was as silly and weird as when people said that the Goddess had unicorn ancestry.

Oh, Merlin. He'd forgotten about the guards. Well, he'd gone way too far to turn back and say anything now.

Pip stepped off the welcome path onto the large flagstones of Curd's streets. An extremely obese goblin man wheeling a little cart squinted at him suspiciously, but said nothing. Not a friendly lot, here.

Okay, so let's see… he needed to go down this street, and then left at the bronze statue of the angry goblin with his fist raised (Crad the Callow, Pip thought it was), then another left at the town market, and then straight on to the Burgod Bur. That was where they put up notices and delivered regulations, and Pip had a stack of them.

Goblin names were a nightmare, really. He didn't know how they kept it sorted out. Curd's government was in the Burgod Bur, while Ackle's was in the Urgod Ur, and if you confused those they thought it was _really funny _even though they sounded almost identical to humans. And they kept using the same names with no surname: the Chief Goldsmith of Gringotts right now was Haddad, not to be confused with Haddad the Silent or Haddad the Hallowed from goblin history (wait, was it Hodrod the Hallowed?). And all the buildings were called things like Poddle Pol, Sugworn Sug, Togrigworn Tog, and whatnot. Impossible to keep them straight! He knew that the way place-name syllables were repeated meant something about the purpose of the building, but he'd never been much for Gobbledegook. It all just sounded silly to him, instead… like the babbling of a baby.

Pip followed the street, glancing around as he walked. Part of the reason they did this by hand, instead of by owl, was that it gave them a chance to take a look at things. Tourism in Curd or Ackle was discouraged, and so the only way to keep tabs on the goblins was with regular official visits. Pip knew that they'd been a lot more intrusive in the past, with wizarding inspectors and regulators and so on, always barging in on the gobbies and making sure everything was on the up-and-up. That made sense to him, since every witch and wizard knew how violent they could be. But that had all been scaled back over the past few years - partly as part of the new cooperative arrangements that the Ministry had made (putting the Tribunes in the Wizengamot), and partly because so many government employees had been sacked.

All the layoffs had brought down Minister for Magic Junius Simplewort Smith (although thankfully not Senior Undersecretary Weasley, who Pip thought was a good bloke), but no one was hired back, even under new Minister for Magic Carmel N'goma. Even if the Ministry wanted to start poking their noses into goblin business all the time, like they used to do, they probably wouldn't have the staff. The sacked inspectors and bureaucrats had all been offered training and loans to start new businesses, and most everyone had moved on with their lives (well, except for those who had started supporting the Malfoys).

The statue of Crad the Callow was in sight, and Pip walked past it and turned left. He wasn't sure why ol' Crad had a statue - the inscription was in Gobbledegook - but he assumed it was probably because of some rebellion or another. Professor Binns had droned on for hours about the rebellions, when Pip was in school.

Pip turned left again once he reached the market, which was almost deserted at this hour. The handful of vendors pulling canvas covers off of their carts and tables paid him no mind except for an occasional glare. Honestly, Pip couldn't help but think gobbies were an ungrateful lot. Goblins controlled a third of the money in the entire country through Gringotts (which bank they'd taken _from wizards_ only a century and a half ago), and he knew they used that power all the time to help themselves out. Further, the Wand Ban had been repealed, and now they were allowed to legally buy and use wands. They'd even been given a seat on the Wizengamot with that Suffrage Decree, six years ago! You'd think they'd show a little gratitude towards wizards and witches, these days, considering what had been done for them.

The Burgod Bur wasn't very impressive… just another sandstone building with slotted windows and a tower. There was Gobbledegook carved in above the door, and a pair of guards, but it was otherwise indistinguishable from most other Curdish buildings. It's odd… Gringotts was a beautiful building of white marble, with Greek columns and bronze doors and glittering lamps. But Curd and Ackle were both very plain places. Pip did have to admit that he'd seen very little of the two goblin settlements, but even with his limited perspective, there was a clear disjunction between them and the bank.

Pip gave the armored guards a nod as he walked in. These were more attentive, but they just nodded their helmeted heads in return. They were each armed with fancy golden partisans which probably had long names and thousand-year-histories, and which probably cost ten times as much as Pip's house.

A goblin in a dapper black suit stood just inside the Burgod Bur, and stepped forward as Pip approached. Pip thought he recognized the goblin, but it was hard to be sure... He hesitated slightly, then risked a greeting: "Hullo, Nagrod."

The goblin smiled toothily and bowed slightly. "Auror Pirrip. What a surprise to see you!" Almost certainly a lie - Nagrod was very good at his job. Pip wasn't entirely sure what that job actually was, but it was bloody well clear at this point that some large part of it involved knowing the name, purpose, history, and shoe size of every visitor to Curd.

"Well, they need someone to plod on out with these things," Pip said. He unbuckled the slicebox at his belt and reached inside, pulling out a sheaf of parchment. "A new decree from the Wizengamot and a new rejuvenation policy from the Tower."

"Ah, the two pillars of your society, handing down rules to us," Nagrod said, managing to sound completely neutral. "May I ask?"

Pip handed the sheaf over to the goblin. "The new decree is not very interesting. Guess that's both bad news and good news. It's just about extending the Floo Network."

Until recently, the Government had always declined to put the settlements of any Beings on the network, but they'd decided to reverse that policy and offer the services of the Floo Network Authority to anyone who requested it, Beings included. Here in Curd, that meant they could connect with places like Dublin or Helga's Roost, if they so desired. That might make travel to England somewhat easier, since they could Floo to Dublin and then buy a portkey.

"Must have been quite the stir in Ackle over this, though," Nagrod said, taking the parchments. "Will the heirs of Togrod Teulu be putting themselves one fireplace away from the Ministry, I wonder?"

Pip didn't venture a comment on that, since that sounded like gobbie politics. He buckled the slicebox back on his belt, instead, fixing the thin wooden box back in place. It had been his suggestion to use them for carrying parchment. Well, not so much his deliberate _suggestion_… he'd just assumed that was their purpose, and so he'd asked for one at the DMLE when they gave him this assignment, yesterday. Chief Auror Diggory hadn't known what he was talking about, but Pip had gone back to the Tower and asked around, and Mr. Potter himself had been delighted by the idea. He'd called them an unintentional byproduct of testing, and said that they had loads of the useless things, and that Pip was a genius. Pip had told his mother about it, and she'd baked him a Whirlibird Cake to celebrate.

Nagrod glanced over the first few sheets, before looking back up. The goblin's long nose was crooked at the arch, and looked more like a hawk's beak than a nose. He blinked owlishly for a moment, then asked Pip, "And what news from the Tower?"

"Even less exciting for you, I'm afraid. They're opening up rejuvenation to Muggles. Direct relatives and Squibs and all that." Pip shrugged.

This would be big news in London, Godric's Hollow, and other human settlements… but less so for Beings, who were already enjoying the benefits of rejuvenation and Safety Poles. Madame Bones had put precautions in place to make sure everything went in an orderly fashion; there were going to be special groups of aurors stationed at the Poles, in addition to the normal pairs of clinic workers who manned those stations, to make sure that the Tower didn't get mobbed as it first opened its doors to Muggles. It was still only a small fraction of Muggles, but there was always a rush whenever any new group was allowed to rejuvenate. When British merfolk signed on to the Treaty for Health and Life in late 1997, Pip had heard that they were shipping in water tanks of old and sick and dying half-people from the Black Lake and Loch Lomond for a solid two days. Before his time in the Tower, of course, but the other aurors talked about it (mostly because of the smell).

"This will be a busy day for you, then," Nagrod said. He lowered the sheaf of papers, after looking carefully for any surprises. "What is a 'direct relative,' though? Mother, brother, uncle, grandfather, cousin, brother-in-law, second cousin twice removed… you will be having many arguments about this."

"Not me… at least, not today," Pip said, brightly. "I'm out on delivery, all day. Here, Dublin, and Helga's Roost, then over to Godric's Hollow and Ackle and down to Wales and all over London." His list of destinations was a long one… these decrees went out to every sizeable community in Britain. "And anyway, they spell out who's eligible, but they're usually really soft about that kind of thing. Anyone who's seriously hurt… they whisk them right in, as fast as they can."

"Really..? How interesting… say, where else are you heading, today?" Nagrod said, thoughtfully. Pip didn't like where this was going, and he'd spent enough time here. He still had that bloody long walk back to the "welcome platform." And honestly, what sort of question was that? Was Nagrod trying to chat him up?

Pip briefly considered what that would be like, and then cleared his throat loudly. "Yes, well, I better be going. You'll put those up, will you?" he said, uncomfortably.

"It would be my pleasure, Auror Pip," Nagrod said, smiling widely. Sharp little teeth shone whitely from behind thick little lips.

Pip nodded firmly and - he hoped - professionally, and got out of there. Today was going to be a long day, full of cryptic conversations, he could tell already.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_April 7th, 1999_

_3:01 p.m._

_Diagon Alley, London, England_

"Three Galleons, young man. Final offer. That's a great deal of money for just a few minutes of discomfort," said Jerina. "You won't even feel it… it'll be numb as a stone. Then a very quick turn of the knife, and it'll be done in moments. Two spells later, you'll be walking out of here just as you came in, only with quite a bit more coin. Likho will be right here… she'll watch and make sure it's done right. And this knife is as sharp as a razor."

"No, thank you, ma'am," Pip said, as pleasantly and courteously as possible under the circumstances. One did not trifle with a hag, even a Nutcombe hag. Even if you were an auror and you were there on official business. No trifling. "I apologize, but I think it would make me uncomfortable, and I must decline."

"It's a waste, is all," said Jerina, sadly. "Young fellow like you, athletic type… good calves. Firm and lean. Four Galleons."

"Jerina," said Likho, warningly. The elder hag stood nearby, arms crossed. Stout almost to the point of obesity, with a spine that twisted into a hump and greyish skin, Likho was firm with her flock. Two long yellow teeth jutted up past her stern lips.

Jerina grimaced, scrunching up her wart-covered face in suffering.

Pip had seen a play once about an Italian named Ugolino. The leading actor had torn at his clothes and howled at the sky and beat the ground with his fists. He had wept until his eyes looked raw and his mouth was a round "O" of unhappiness. And yet there was far more pain in Jerina's expression right at this moment, twisted in agony and need, as she begged to be allowed to eat his flesh.

He almost agreed, just to give her some relief.

"Jerina…" Likho repeated, and the younger hag turned away, slamming her fists down against her legs. Jerina stalked away, out of the parlor and out of sight. Pip didn't permit himself a sigh or a change in posture, but kept a pleasant smile stiffly pasted on his mouth. His cheeks hurt from maintaining it.

Likho watched Jerina go, then turned to Pip. "I apologize, Auror Pirrip. She is young, and it is difficult."

"I understand, ma'am, and accept your apology," he said. _Did that sound false? Damn it, Pip… Be sincere be sincere be sincere be sincere… _"I hope that Miss Jerina soon feels better."

Likho nodded absently, turning to look back at where Jerina had gone. The older hag's eyes were a tawny and beautiful gold, quite out of keeping with the rest of her physical hideousness. Pip had read that a hag's eyes were always blood-red - like Jerina's - but he supposed that the effect must be a result of Likho's abstinence from human meat. She was famously self-controlled, which was why she led the Nutcombe Society.

"Tell me, Auror Pirrip, about the Tower," Likho said to him. "Tell me about the man. I've met him, twice, but only on formal occasions. What sort of man is he?"

Pip thought carefully - very carefully - for a moment, then said, "Well, ma'am, he's very strange… very much in his own head. He makes jokes that no one understands, like calling aurors 'red shirts.' And I think he's a little lonely. But maybe that's like most people in power." He considered for another long moment. He didn't want to give a bad impression of Mr. Potter. But neither was he going to lie or dissemble. Not here. No trifling. "I think probably the most important thing about him is that he doesn't want anyone to get hurt."

Likho nodded, and Pip got the impression that she was no longer paying attention. Hags could see things that no one else could see. It wasn't the future, exactly… They just seemed to reach bizarre and inexplicable conclusions than everyone else - one famous hag had insisted that she was meant to be married to a teenage boy that she'd just met. That had made headlines for weeks.

Honoria Nutcombe herself could only ever say that they could "see all the things that were real." Pip wasn't enough of a scholar to know what that meant, so he only abided by Madame Bones' advice to the Shichinin, which he'd overheard last year: "When dealing with a hag, gentlemen, be scrupulously polite and expeditiously brief."

These hags, at least, were trying to be civilized. He didn't know what they ate, when they couldn't get someone to agree to sell them a bit of themselves, but it seemed quite difficult for them. Maybe they didn't really _have_ to eat at all. Pip had no interest in loitering about to find out.

After a bit, Likho spoke up again, asking, "And does he know the cause of the narrowing?"

Pip had not the smallest idea what that might mean, and so he erred on the side of caution. "I don't know, ma'am."

"Very well. Thank you, then, Auror Pirrip. Good afternoon."

_All day like this_, Pip thought glumly, as he bowed slightly and left the Nutcombe Society. His smile was still plastered on his face. He'd already been to Curd, Dublin, Helga's Roost, and Godric's Hollow, and at every stop there was someone asking him things that were entirely unanswerable about recent events or the Tower or rejuvenation, asking about things that their seers or oneiromancers or neladoracht had told them.

Maybe there was a reason Diggory kept sending him on these assignments.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_April 7th, 1999_

_3:04 p.m._

_Salor Sprig, The Forbidden Forest, Scotland_

"No, sir, I don't know what the meaning of 'is,' is," Pip said, patiently. "Just the usual meaning, I suppose."

Roonwit rumbled deep in his chest and struck the dirt with an idle hoof. "What is usual to me may not be usual to you, human. The subordination of the rigor of definition to the glib gesturing towards 'usual' - by which you mean, 'custom;' the humbling of writing beneath a speech dreaming its plenitude; such are the gestures required by an onto-theology determining the archaeological and eschatological meaning of being as presence, as parousia, as life without difference: another name for death, historical metonymy where God's name holds death in check. That is why, if this movement begins its era in the form of Platonism, it ends in infinitist metaphysics. If we follow your feeble logic where it will, there is no end to our questioning - we'll never really communicate, since we'll never know what a word truly means." He gestured with an immense spear at the sky, as though waving the needle point at the futility of language.

"Roonwit, you are speaking in deliberately difficult language, and that is why you are not really communicating," said Cloudbirth, who was standing nearby. He clopped over, flanks shining in the sun overhead. "Just speak clearly, and trust that you will make your point. Don't try to hide in jargon like the Fontainebleau."

Pip nodded gratefully at Cloudbirth, but the centaur wasn't done. Cloudbirth went on, and his dangerous, flashing eye cut off Pip before he could speak, "The same principle holds, you know, for more everyday matters. Even in social life, you will never make a good impression on other people until you stop thinking about what sort of impression you are making. Even in literature and art, no man who bothers about originality will ever be original whereas if you simply try to tell the truth you will, nine times out of ten, become original without ever having noticed it. The principle runs through all life from top to bottom: Give up yourself, and you will find your real self."

"Is there anyone else I can speak to, sir?" Pip asked, politely.

"Elder Glenstorm!" called Roonwit, gesturing across the clearing at a centaur who was standing next to one of the rough bark shacks that were the only buildings at the Salor Sprig. The named centaur looked up from his book, startled, and put it carefully on a shelf within one of the shacks, and trotted over. He took a wide berth around the center of the grassy clearing, where the sacred sapling grew.

"Afternoon," Glenstorm said. He was a blue roan, with broad sides of a dusty grey. A longbow was slung across his human torso, and a quiver of arrows swung along his equine shoulder, kept from abrading with an oilcloth. "Are you two foals harassing this young human?"

"Elder Glenstorm has a smooth mouth, and much experience speaking with humans," said Cloudbirth, kindly. "We learn to think first, and it is only with time that we develop concision."

"Thank y-" began Pip, but Cloudbirth wasn't finished.

"We do our best, of course," continued Cloudbirth, "but some of the humans from your Ministry have given very unbalanced accounts of our aim, as though the wine which is the reward of all our labors was the anguish and bewilderment of a human. We merely follow a general rule: in all activities of mind which favor our cause of wisdom, encourage oneself to be un-selfconscious and to concentrate on that object, but in all other activities bend the mind back on itself and fix the attention inward. It is the best way to restrain our native temperaments."

"Enough, enough," murmured Glenstorm. Cloudbirth frowned and thumped the ground. The elder centaur turned to Pip. "It is unwise to come to the Salor Sprig without good cause, auror. Matters between our peoples have much improved, of late, but cross half a distance and half yet remains."

_Oh, Merlin._

"I would like to post these two announcements. One is from the Ministry, and one is from the Tower," Pip said, remaining as calm as he was able. "I don't think either of them affect your people very much."

"We will be the judge of that," said Glenstorm, curtly. At least he was brief. Pip handed the sheaf of parchment up to the elder centaur, happy to be rid of his charge and eager to be gone.

"Yes, well," Pip said, backing up, "Please do." One never really recognized just how ruddy big a horse-man could be until you were standing uncomfortably in the middle of three of them.

"More to do with wizard kin than the people," Glenstorm said to Roonwit, after scanning the sheaf of parchment. "The auror is quite right. I will speak to the other elders about this, but I see nothing to intrude upon us, here. We will be able to keep our hands clean. Firenze is wrong, again."

Roonwit hefted his spear in one hand and transferred it to the other, as if impatient with it. Pip wasn't exactly sure if Roonwit was a posted guard here, or just carrying the spear for protection or a ceremony or… some other unknowable mysterious centaur purpose. They were proper weird. They were an exceedingly private and outrageously proud people, only sending out rare emissaries to wizardkind when they felt forced to do so. Not a single one had consented to be rejuvenated or even healed by the Tower, despite the Salor Sprig's Safety Pole.

Pip's Head of House back in school, Severus Snape, had once spoken of centaurs in the common room, when a plot was being hatched to get rid of Professor Trelawney (who was widely believed to favor Gryffindor students). She was high-strung, and three enterprising Slytherins had plotted to start leaving her notes in her own handwriting (as best they could manage it) informing her that she'd been Obliviated, and telling her about all sorts of terrible things that she'd witnessed important people doing. Snape had discovered the plot, and while he approved of this plan in terms of conception and cleverness (not that he could ever have actually countenanced such actions against a fellow professor) he had been merciless in mocking their next step: to invite a centaur to teach in Trelawney's place, once she'd been stuffed into St. Mungo's. Pip was unclear on the purpose of that replacement, but he thought it had been rooted in a basic assumption that the centaur would fail so badly they'd just eliminate Divination altogether.

Snape had said that centaurs were monstrously jealous of their privacy: they spent their lives in pursuit of philosophy, divination, and medicine - three practices that inherently involved interacting with strangers - and yet still worked tirelessly to isolate themselves from the unwashed masses. Any centaur who deigned to accept a teaching assignment at Hogwarts would be beaten and cast out from his people. "No member of that race," Snape had sneered, "would pay a permanent price for a temporary position. They are self-involved, not outright imbecilic."

Pip sometimes thought that the Sorting Hat had been wrong, putting him in Slytherin.

Roonwit spoke again, gruffly. "My apologies to you, auror, if I was too obscure. The pursuit of meaning is an important one, but I have been perhaps too-long devoted to the contemplation of signifier and signified. It is a matter of great importance to me… it is immortality."

"Metaphorically, you mean," replied Cloudbirth. "Such a conceit can't give any real guidance to action… What is the good of telling the ships how to steer so as to avoid collisions if, in fact, they are such crazy old tubs that they cannot be steered at all?"

"Not at all! True immortality… and it is inherent in every sign!" said Roonwit. "Every sign, linguistic or nonlinguistic, spoken or written, as a small or large unity, can be cited, put between quotation marks; thereby it can break with every given context, and engender infinitely new contexts in an absolutely nonsaturable fashion. This does not suppose that the mark is valid outside its context, but on the contrary that there are only contexts without any center of absolute anchoring. This citationality, duplication, or duplicity, this iterability of the mark is not an accident or anomaly, but is that normal or abnormal without which a mark could no longer even have a so-called 'normal' functioning. What would a mark be that one could not cite? And whose origin could not be lost on the way? It would be an immortal sign, alive because an end cannot approach that which does not have a beginning."

Pip must have been revealing too much on his face - or maybe Glenstorm really was just more thoughtful than the other centaurs - because the elder centaur waved him on, signaling that he could leave.

He was starting to understand why he had the full sweep of messenger duty today, and not a more experienced auror. The goblins were strange, but fine. He'd be happy to keep going back to Curd and Ackle, like he had before. Even the Nutcombe Society was only unnerving and dangerous.

But this…

Whoever regularly brought messages to the Salor Sprig deserved a promotion and a crate of firewhiskey.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_April 7th, 1999_

_7:28 p.m._

_The Receiving Room, Hogwarts, Scotland_

When Pip got back to the Tower after his _very_ long day (fourteen different places!), people were arriving in the Receiving Room at the rate of seven or eight people a minute, and all the receiving aurors looked ragged. The foreigners looked worst of all - Pip supposed that they had fewer people on their team to relieve them, but were still expected to put in their fair share.

The elderly and injured and diseased appeared, spinning in from a sideways that was always orthogonal to the viewer, and coming to a rest softly. Usually, they still glowed a faint red from the stunning effect of the trip. As they arrived, one of the aurors would examine them for a second, and then a pair would get to work scanning and dispelling. After years of practice - including other mad days like today - most of the sizeable contingent of receiving aurors were old hands at the work, and patients were either wheeled in through the golden entrance to the Tower or moved into an adjacent room for other assistance or questioning.

The on-site workers at the Safety Poles usually did a decent job of triage, and kept back those who didn't actually need the Tower's assistance, but those facilities - some of which were growing to be full-fledged hospitals to rival St. Mungo's, squatting protectively around their individual Safety Poles - weren't perfect. And almost a third of all visitors traveled via Safety Stick instead, directly from their homes or work. Some of them were only panicking, some of them only needed first aid, and many had just made a mistake with the Safety Stick. A surprising number of children thought "running safety" was just a lark.

On a day like today, with Muggles and Squibs arriving… well, who knew how many things had gone wrong today? Pip knew that the Obliviator Squad had been expanded and was scheduled to work around the clock for the next two weeks, until they'd worked out all the kinks in the system. Even everyone in the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol had been scheduled for extra shifts, filling in for aurors as guards at Howard. It was incredibly hectic.

Auror Kwannon saw Pip arrive. She looked exhausted, her almond eyes heavy-lidded and face drawn. She was probably on her second or third straight shift, he thought, and brimming with tea to keep her sharp.

"Do you want me to spell you for a bit, Hedley?" he asked her, stepping over a merwoman as another auror put a poultice of sullyflower to the being's gills, so the stunned creature could breathe. There were several people in odd Muggle clothes on gurneys nearby - Muggles or Squibs.

Kwannon shook her head. "Go report to Kraeme. I'm fine." She paused. "Wait, this just came in," she said, pulling a sealed parchment from her belt. "You'll save me a trip… give it to the Tower."

Some people were made of bloody iron, Pip reflected. He nodded respectfully, taking the parchment, and walked through the golden portal into the Tower, moving briskly through the Thieves' Downfall.

Britain, Italy, Germany, Norden, France, the Free States, Nigeria, and half a dozen more states… their dying and desperately diseased streamed into the Tower all around Pip. He was back in the beating heart of the world once more. His chest swelled with pride, though he knew that was silly. He was just a small part of it. But to be here, now… being sent personally on missions for the Tower!

The clinic was bursting, Pip could see from his brief glance inside. Temporary bunks had been set up along the walls to accommodate those patients who had been healed and were just waiting on their dismissal, each one tagged with labels indicating time and healer. The special ward had been reclaimed for general use - apparently lycanthropes and vampires were being asked to come in another day. The discharge ward was a madhouse, as the Obliviators had set up shop in one corner and were carefully keeping tabs on all the Muggles, double-checking with the arithmancers on duty throughout the Tower to make sure no one fell through the cracks.

Pip headed down the corridors away from the hellacious racket, past the Conjuration Conjunction, the Extension Establishment, and Material Methods. J.C. wasn't in the meeting room, so he went down another corridor to Pairing Partnership. That was where the Tower had been spending a lot of time over the past few weeks, and J.C. Kraeme was probably with him.

"J.C.?" he asked, as he entered the Pairing Partnership. The Lovegood Leaf rustled as he opened and closed the door. There was a hum and a whirring in the room, which was filled with all sorts of esoteric Muggle equipment, but it wasn't very loud, and J.C. noticed him immediately. She was standing next to the Tower, who was on a computer (as usual). Luna Lovegood and Dolores Umbridge were also present, fiddling with odd objects.

As Pip approached Mr. Potter and J.C., he glanced at the screen, but the glowing text was written in a kind of code to hide its meaning:

_else if(state==ENDQUOTE) {_

_state=QUOTE;_

_eeg_data[j][k++] = csv_line[i];_

"Pirrip. Any problems today?" J.C. asked, her voice sharp. Her mess of black curls didn't hide the grim intensity of her scrutiny. She was one of the old breed, like Kwannon… before the ranks of the aurors doubled in 1996. Mr. Potter didn't look up - he just kept manipulating the computer's keys. He was wearing Muggle clothing - a brown suit. Very handsome, even with the ponytail.

"Not a one," Pip said, brightly.

Mr. Potter leaned back in his seat, and swiveled to face Pip. "What did the centaurs have to say?"

"I wasn't sure about most of it, sir. A lot of arguing over how things were said. But there was an elder there who could talk straight, and he was just happy that the new Tower rules for rejuvenation weren't going to 'intrude' on them," Pip said.

Mr. Potter smiled coldly. "Ah, yes. They keep their hands off of me and mine as much as they can. They don't want to be involved, since they fear some sort of moral Anns test. In their minds, they're not morally culpable for outcomes, as long as they remain uninvolved. An odd sort of moral calculus, but that's one of the flaws of deontology."

_Oh, good, this again. At least I'm used to _him _saying impenetrable things._

"They get what they deserve, though… nasty creatures are sentencing themselves to their own punishment," said Miss Umbridge. It was odd to see her, here… one of the only middle-aged people who worked in the Tower or with the Unspeakables who hadn't been rejuvenated. She was plump and shiny and unpleasant, wearing a fluffy pink cardigan.

"There's probably a better explanation," Miss Lovegood said. The blonde witch had an odd-looking bonnet in her hands. "Blibbering Humdingers, rampant gum disease, a sustained private propaganda campaign… could be anything." She paused. "Although the last one of those is most likely."

"What on earth is a Blibbering Humdinger?" asked Miss Umbridge, with a sweetness that covered her contempt with a thin layer of syrupy falseness.

"It's a dreadful Dark creature that infects you when you're young," Miss Lovegood replied, turning back to the Muggle-made bonnet in her hands and fixing a metal wire into it. She sounded vague and airy. "It can control your behavior. Its life-cycle involves small animals, and so when the Humdinger takes over, it makes you unbearable to be around for other people. So you spend your time around small animals, instead."

Miss Umbridge snorted derisively and shook her head.

"You haven't been rejuvenated, though, Dolores," said Mr. Potter, swiveling his chair to face her, now. He was grinning at what Miss Lovegood had said. "Aren't you sentencing yourself to the same fate as the centaurs, eventually?"

"Well," Miss Umbridge said, pursing her lips. "I just haven't done it _yet_. I'm quite young and in vigorous health. And I'm not entirely sure about the whole thing, anyway. I don't think it's been thought through…" She paused, nervously. "That is to say, I'm just waiting."

"You have proven to be invaluable, Dolores, so please don't wait forever. You remind me of a certain journal editor I once knew, although you are less particular about the color of ink." Mr. Potter said, and smiled affectionately. He turned to Pip. "Mr. Pirrip - sorry, do you mind if I call you 'Pip?' "

Pip felt such a warm glow of pride that it threatened to stifle him, but he managed to say, "Please do, sir."

"Pip, have you heard anyone talking about the 'Three' today? Or about new and powerful magic they've seen? A new sort of Dark Mark, that wipes memories? You get along very well with everyone, and people talk around you… did you hear anything like that?"

"The 'Three,' sir?" Pip scratched his head. "I'm not sure… you mean the Shichinin?"

"No, not Neville and the twins," Harry said, shaking his head. He grinned again. "Although that would be a particularly terrifying possibility. Just keep your ears open, will you?"

Pip nodded, puzzled. "Yes, sir." He started, remembering. "Oh, sir, Auror Kraeme gave me this for you."

J.C. scowled ferociously at Pip as he handed over the sealed parchment. The Tower took it and broke the seal, scanning the contents rapidly. "Cappadocia and the Sawad appear to be in secret negotiations over a treaty," he mused. "It'll be in the _Prophet_ tomorrow."

Miss Lovegood looked up, surprise wiping away her dreamy expression. "They're joining the Treaty! That's wonderful, Harry! And… surprising!"

"A Treaty of Independence," said Mr. Potter. "With the Malfoys' organization. They're enlisting with the Honourable." He handed the missive to Miss Lovegood, and Miss Umbridge crowded next to her to read it, as well.

"What does this mean, sir?" asked Pip. He felt a small twinge of fear in his guts, but it was overwhelmed by awe and joy at his place in things.

"I'm not sure," said the Tower, and fell silent.

It was by far the scariest thing Pip had seen all day.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_NOTE: This is the end of Arc 1 of "Significant Digits." The next chapter will go up in two weeks. It will be a flashback chapter, prior to the start of Arc 2._

_It will be called "Azkaban."_


	16. Azkaban

Chapter Fourteen: Azkaban

_The infinite resignation is the last stage prior to faith, so that one who has not made this movement has not faith; for only in the infinite resignation do I become clear to myself with respect to my eternal validity, and only then can there be any question of grasping existence by virtue of faith._

\- Søren Kierkegaard, _Fear and Trembling_

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_July 14th, 1992_

_The office of Headmistress McGonagall, Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry_

"No, I didn't mean it, please don't die!"

"No, I didn't mean it, please don't die!"

"No, I didn't mean it, please don't die!"

"No, I didn't mean it, please don't die!"

"No, I didn't mean it, please don't die!"

"No, I didn't mean it, please don't die!"

"No, I didn't mean it, please don't die!"

"No, I didn't mean it, please don't die!"

"No, I didn't mean it, please don't die!"

"Don't go! No, no, no, don't go, don't take it away, don't don't don't… Please, please, I can't remember my children's names any more..."

And that was the end to the memory. A ghostly boy with terror and pain on his face stood stricken, visible beneath the translucent drape of the Cloak of Invisibility, pointing his wand at a placid and skeletal Bellatrix Black. They were frozen in a stone corridor, standing before a heavy metal door with a simple lock, lit by a glowing humanoid figure, and deep in the foulest hell made by man.

Hermione pulled herself free, wrenching herself out of the liquid memory in the Pensieve with an effort of will, and vomited on the floor.

Harry felt the acid burn of vomit in the back of his own throat as he watched her. When she looked up at Harry, Hermione's eyes were as dead and dry as stones.

"But… you're in charge now, Harry," Her voice was very small. "Just close Azkaban. Have it destroyed. Free everyone, Harry. Do... do something."

She hung her head like she was broken. "Fix it."

"I can't," he said, his voice as heavy as his heart. Even though he knew what was going to come next, and that hope fluttered deep in his soul like something winged, and even though he knew that she had to _know_ if she was going to _do… _he was hurting her. He was hurting her _again_, even though it was good for her and good for the world and utterly necessary. "I just… this is…" Harry had prepared words, but now they sounded grossly inadequate. "Almost all of the prisoners are gone, except for the… the worst. But I couldn't end it… I couldn't fix it… and I can't go myself. I actually _can't_. I'm too..." _Important. I'm too important, now. I can't risk myself and the future of the world. Not while the path to the scorpion and the archer… not while… _But the words died on his tongue. The Vow and all logic could stop him from acting, but they couldn't touch his shame.

"They wouldn't close it. They don't understand… not really," he said. Hermione's fingers clutched at the stone beneath her. Her fingernails clawed spasmodic tracks into its surface, dusting their brilliance with grey.

Harry had made speeches and he had made threats on the floor of the Wizengamot. He had demanded and received the greatest political cunning of Amelia Bones and the most clever plotting of Alastor Moody and the sheer moral weight of Minerva McGonagall's pursed lips, and yet the vote had failed. There had been bribery and blackmail and hissed words, and though many dire opponents were already lying headless on slabs as an example… and the vote had failed. At the climax of the debate, the Wizengamot - desperate to find some accommodation that would satisfy the Boy-Who-Lived, who was now clearly one of the most powerful figures in the country - had coalesced around an alternative proposal to have the dozen remaining prisoners executed instead of freed. Harry had rejected that outrage, and by a margin of three votes, Azkaban remained open.

Dementors still fed.

"But there is something that can fix it," he said. Hermione stayed on her hands and knees, heaving with shuddering breaths, and Harry knelt down next to her. "If we destroy the Dementors, then… that will be an end to Azkaban. No more torture. No more… _that_."

A word tore from her throat, ragged and loud. "_How_?!"

"There is a way to cast the Patronus Charm… a different way. A way that can _destroy Dementors_. They're not unkillable… it's why they were afraid of me, in the Wizengamot. It can… do other things, too. It can fix this. You can fix this, if you learn it." Harry shifted in position a little bit, moving a fold of his robes from beneath one knee. "There are a dozen people left in Azkaban that I couldn't save." He put a hand on her back, felt it move in heaves as she sucked air in and out, overcome with what she'd seen. Harry knew how she'd felt… remembered when he was in that nightmare, and the depth of his feeling had nearly drained the life out of him through his Patronus. He leaned in, and hated himself for this manipulation. But he remembered the concussive shock to his soul that it had taken for him to see through the illusion… to see the death behind the fear. To understand. He had to bring her to that point, or he'd be betraying her. His voice was almost a whisper as he said, "But you can."

She looked up at him, and her eyes were alive again, eagle-bright and demanding. "Tell me."

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

Take a child by the hand. Lead them to a dark place… the basement they fear, perhaps, or the alley that scares them so much that they cross the street when they need to walk past. Look them in the eyes. There's someone hurting in there, child, you say. They're hurting so much. They hurt all the time, and they scream, and there's no one to help them. There are things in there that eat them.

Take that child by the shoulders and point into the darkness. Look there, you say. Look into that darkness. Someone is hurting and someone is screaming and someone is being _eaten_, and no one can help them.

No one but you.

You're the only one who can do it, you say, taking their hot little hand in yours and squeezing it. Only you.

All you have to do is fly.

That's all. I know you can do it. I have faith in you. I believe in you. Just… fly. Lift off into the air. Rise up into the sky, and swoop down into that darkness. That person is being eaten, all alone, and you just have to go there and take them by the hand and lift them out.

No one but you. You can do it.

Then turn that child towards the darkness and give them a push. A little shove - they stagger forward a bit. And their face is determined and they clench their fists and they _leap_…

But they can't fly. Of course they can't fly. You're asking the impossible. And they will fall to the ground and skin their knees, and scramble to their feet and try again, and fall again but jump right back up and try and try and try and try. They will scream with frustration and stretch out their hands towards that basement, that alley, that darkness.

They believed you. They believed you when you said that they could do it. That someone was there in the dark, alone and in pain and in need. They believed that they were the only ones who could do it.

And how terrible

it is

to fail.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

Hermione couldn't do it. She couldn't cast the Patronus Charm.

She spoke intently with Harry for hours, and studied physics and philosophy for hours. She practiced, over and over, for hours. Six, ten, fourteen hours a day, sometimes. She had a Time Turner, and she used it every day.

Every hour she could spare from studying for her Ordinary Wizarding Levels or from working in the odd little hospital that Harry had set up, in that tower room with shabby couches and a few chairs and full-wall windows all around, guarded by a handful of bemused aurors and an intricate passageway of Alastor's wards and traps.

Every hour she could spare from auror training, even though that already left her exhausted enough to break down in tears, keyed up and nervous and ready to DODGE and CAST and DUCK and SHIELD and everything all surprises until she was ready to collapse from nerves.

Every hour she could spare from healing people in the tower and dealing with all the myriad mysteries and emergencies of her new role. Lesath Lestrange went missing from his bed in the Slytherin dormitories, and Hermione was so exhausted that she was barely able to join the search for six hours before she had to retreat to her bed - not that she could sleep once she'd gotten there.

Every hour she could spare from visiting dignitaries and nobles and emissaries, going to every member of the Wizengamot and two-dozen Confederation representatives and doing everything she could - _throwing _herself and all her small childish dignity and every ounce of fame she possessed - the Girl-Who-Revived, how she _loathed _that name now, since she was a _mockery_ and there were _people in Azkaban_ \- and she would persuade and threaten and _beg_ them into committing to close the prison, but that was too much to ask of the Wizengamot. Harry and Hermione did what they could: two more prisoners were released. One died. But nine remained, despite everything. Nine people were being eaten.

She spoke to everyone she could. There was almost no one she could really tell, not without destroying their own ability or capacity to cast a Patronus. A middling Occlumens at this point, she had to be careful about many things. But she spoke around the problem, and sought inspiration and guidance. For one memorable evening, she'd talked with Draco all through the night and into the dawn, and wept in his arms.

They formulated plans: maybe they could recruit all the trusted people they could, those who could cast Patronuses, and attack that way. Hold off the Dementors while the ten victims were taken away, and then herd them off to some other isle. Keep them there by standing guard in shifts. With all of Harry and Hermione's money and will and fame, there were fully a hundred wizards and witches who could be enlisted. A Dementor zoo, until such time as they could be abolished. A Dementor prison.

But Dementors must be fed. Even a Patronus will not restrain them if they are not fed. Not forever. And it would mean open rebellion against the Wizengamot and the law, and that would hurt matters as much as help.

Harry told her all he knew of the true nature of a Dementor. He told her of his absolute rejection of death as the natural order. He told her about his dreams for the future, about how death was a thing that would be overcome one day in the distant future - heck, they had the Stone, it might not even be that _distant._ She read Heinlein and Asimov and Sagan and Vonnegut and Adams and a thousand other books. He took her through it, over and over. He arranged to bring in a Dementor, and she tried the Charm in its view and right in front of it and with a Patronus protecting her and without one protecting her and _every other way_ they could think of. He did it with her and talked her through, and stood behind her and held her hand and everything else. Over and over, until she broke down, and then she would still make herself go on. And she failed, every time. Completely. Not even a silver mist.

In her room - a private room, she needed it, she had to have it so she could study and practice and plan - she would read and practice and think and cast:

"Expecto Patronum!"

But she barely even heard herself when she cast the charm, even after thousands and thousands of tries. All she heard were the words in her head:

"No, I didn't mean it, please don't die!"

_It wasn't supposed to be this way_, Harry thought one night in the library, looking at her collapsed in exhaustion in front of a book._ You're the bravest person… you're the _best _person. When a Dementor was eating me, you ran _towards _it to save me. When Voldemort tempted you with every cleverness he could devise, you never wavered from the good. And you know science… you were raised with science. Not like me, but you know the possibilities. You are brave and good and smart - smarter than me - and wise… how can this be the way things are? How can I have… have broken you so badly?_

It was unfair, to expect this of her. It was so unfair that they tried everything else they could think of, but the truth was that no one was willing to be the deciding vote to release a serial rapist or mass-murderer from the only unbreachable prison in the world. Everyone knew the story of Godfrey of Sontag, a Dark Lord who had been released and pardoned by the Wizengamot in the tenth century for his service in the war against Lord Foul the Despiser - a villain who had been one of the great evils of that time, whose evil had bound the Founders of Hogwarts into a companionship sworn against him. Godfrey had taken his pardon and had gone on to carve out a kingdom for himself in the Basque Country in Spain, and had done unspeakable acts, out of reach of all law, for fifty years… acts that were, in truth, too monstrous for any thirteen-year-old girl of sound mind to dwell upon. But she dwelt on it, and agonized, and wondered if this was why she couldn't cast the Patronus… since she was striving with all her heart to free nine people who were truly vile. Logic could have trouble touching the heart.

But it was not given to Hermione Jean Granger to give up or to give in. Maybe that was a flaw. Maybe that was why she had once fallen victim to a careful plot to convince even _her_ that she was a murderer. She could not let herself stop. She couldn't _forgive _herself. She tried, and failed, and wept. In time, and despite all the magics in her flesh, her eyes grew as hollow as any of the Demented.

She was undergoing a special kind of torture, you see. There were people being eaten in the darkness, but Hermione could not fly to save them.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_December 23rd, 1992_

_Eight months since Hermione's death._

_Six months since Professor Quirrell's final exam and Hermione's resurrection._

_Five months since that day in the office of the Headmistress._

_In the Tower._

They were talking about her. She could hear them. Her hearing was better than average, especially with high frequencies - she wasn't sure why, but she suspected that the cause was the continuous regeneration of the stereocilia in her inner ears.

"Ms. Granger is going to kill herself if she continues at this rate, and it will be on your head," Headmistress McGonagall said to Harry, in a low but angry voice. She was sitting with a rigid back on a bench next to him, as he held a wand to an unconscious girl-child's chest. "Even she cannot do this, not at this pace, not for so many months… what cannot continue forever must eventually stop, and I fear the consequences when it does. You have to do something. She won't listen to me." McGonagall leaned in closer and spoke some more, but Hermione could only make out the words, "poisoned her mind."

Hermione grit her teeth, and returned her attention to the middle-aged man in front of her. He'd had Dragon Pox last year, and it hadn't been treated properly, leaving him with weeping sores all over his skin. She concentrated on transfiguring them into healthy flesh.

For his part, Harry remained silent and grim. He didn't look at Hermione - he probably knew she could hear. He just shook his head at McGonagall and kept working. Eventually, he placed his hand on the child in front of him, placing the special glove he wore on the girl's chest. The glove concealed the Stone, which was almost entirely buried in a specially-made Extension Charm on the palm. One last precaution, notwithstanding all of Alastor's traps in the entrance corridor and the strict limits on who was even allowed to be here and the fact that everyone was supposed to be stunned or sleeping. Harry had to touch all of their patients, and expose the most valuable and powerful artifact in the world to them when he did. This was their best solution to that dilemma. It wasn't perfect: they were healing a dozen people a day, now, but Harry wanted to increase that by an order of magnitude. They'd need a new solution, soon. Hermione felt weary just thinking about that.

After a while, the headmistress left. Hermione tried to put it out of mind, and called out, "Harry." Without needing further prompting, the boy with the lightning scar rose from the bench where he was sitting and walked over to her. He put his hand on her patient's chest, and left it there.

"What did the headmistress want?" she asked him, keeping her voice level.

Harry didn't take the bait, and kept his attention on the man in front of him. "Just about the schedule for the Science Program. It makes her nervous… she's worried that the first few years of graduates won't get any kind of proper education - leaving the standard Hogwarts curriculum and going to our untested new one. And she told me off again about the Houses thing."

Harry had floated the notion of the Science Program being resorted into new groupings, to build new loyalties and break the bad old patterns. He'd said that it was important to have the right kind of heroes, and had proposed Talleyrand House, Newton House, and… two others. She was tired, and couldn't remember which other Muggles he'd suggested. It didn't matter. Harry was literally the only one in any of the planning meetings for the Program who'd thought this was a good idea. McGonagall had been downright offended, in fact. Hermione had expressed her disagreement for the added layer of complexity with a John Gall quote: "New systems mean new problems" (_Systemantics_, page 29, her brain automatically supplied).

She didn't want any new problems. Her life was a single difficulty, sharpened down to a point and stabbing her through the heart.

"Fine," she said. She avoided his eyes. "I think I'm done for the day. I'm going to go to the library."

"Try to rest," Harry said, quietly.

She nodded, but she wasn't tired. Not physically. She felt a… _moral _exhaustion, she supposed.

_This must be_, she thought as she walked down the corridor, _something like what charitable adults must feel._ If you make £20,000 a year, how much did you give away? Maybe you keep enough to live comfortably, and then donated the rest. Keep £18,000 and donate £2,000 to OxFam. But why not £2,001? Why not £10,000 - you could live well-enough on the other half of your income, and those thousand of pounds might save a life. Where did it end? When did you relax and say that you'd done enough?

_There was always room to be a little bit more ethical_, Hermione thought. Just like in Harry's hospital - the "Tower," as she'd heard the aurors call it synecdochally - there was always going to be room to heal more people. Certainly they were never going to be able to heal everyone in Britain, much less the world… but Harry kept pushing to increase the number of people who were portkeyed in, every day. He urged more from the pairs of aurors at St. Mungo's and Godric's Hollow, where they chose the desperate cases who needed Harry's unique healing ability. He had grand plans for expanding the staff and hiding the Stone… he was always pushing. Trying to be a little bit better.

But Hermione had a different worry. It was the worry that drove her to twenty-eight-hour days for weeks at a time, and that led her to wrack her brain for every possible trick or thought or fact that might serve her. Because in the meantime, minutes were ticking away. Minute after minute after minute… and in those minutes, people were suffering.

Hermione worried that she hadn't done enough.

She should have been able to cast the True Patronus spell, by all reason and reckoning. There was no excuse. She could let herself forget about donating to OxFam since she had no income - and because she was directly helping to save lives - but there were nine people who were being tortured, and that was on her shoulders. Hermione hadn't been able to do what she _should_ be able to do, and the time was past when she could shrug off that responsibility and turn to her elders. Alastor almost certainly couldn't learn the True Patronus. Nor could the headmistress, or Madame Bones, or any of the aurors, or Neville, or the twins. Trying to teach them would have destroyed their Patronuses, and probably failed to teach them anything new. To look squarely at death without flinching… to see it as a thing to be overcome and surpassed… to reject death on some fundamental level... it was a way of thinking that even she could understand only in _theory_. She couldn't pretend differently. She couldn't pretend this was anyone else's responsibility.

So Hermione drove herself. To devise new strategies and ways of thought, or to sway the Wizengamot on another of the prisoners - she knew all of the remaining victims by name and foul deed, with such intimacy that she felt she knew them, though they seldom had the strength to even speak to her when she visited - to try to do just _one more thing_ to fix it. Those minutes were ticking away, each of them agony, each of them one more minute she might have been able to stop. If she hadn't failed.

She was back in her rooms. When had that happened? She'd intended to go to the library.

Hermione sat heavily on the bed, instead. She felt as if she were going mad. But she couldn't do that, either. She didn't have that luxury. Minutes were passing. Minute after minute. One more minute, every minute, that she wasn't fixing this.

At some point, she fell into a sleep that was so deep that it was like plunging into a pit. She was drawn down into it, and knew nothing.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

Hermione dreamt.

She was climbing a mountain with her son. She knew that fact, somehow, in the way of dreams - a knowledge that was in her bones. Her beard was long, and she had seen nearly a century's worth of suns, but those things were not what made her steps heavy. It was despair. She was leaden with sorrow. Was this real? Had this ever happened? It didn't seem to matter.

(and Hermione, who had only ever been to mass once - at Guildford with her grandparents when she was six - but whose reading had been all-encompassing, stirred uncomfortably in her sleep, and murmured four soft words to the cold and empty room)

There had been something terrible asked of her, and she knew that she didn't have the strength for the task. They climbed the mountain anyway, since what else could she do, and she laid a hand on her son's back from time to time, in her affection for the child of her old age. When she thought of her wife, it was like a blade in her side that made her gasp, because there had been something terrible asked of her. And she knew that she would fail.

(she moaned quietly again, and the muscles of her legs tensed, and when she rolled a bit onto her side, her hair stuck to her face in dark ringlets)

The dark-stained stone was on the southern peak, and as they mounted up to the top of the dusty trail, she tripped and fell. Her boy caught her arm and held her up, and she found her feet and squeezed his forearm in her hand for a moment, in gratitude, before she let go. He smiled at her, looking at her with his strong good looks beneath his sun-blonde hair. Where is the sacrifice, Father, he asked her.

(she was thirteen and too much had been asked of her, _too much and it wasn't fair_, and even asleep she knew it, but she fell into stillness once more, four words on her motionless lips)

Something terrible had been asked of her, but she could do naught but each next necessary thing, until the moment came when she could do no more. She quieted her child and they prepared the wood, setting it in place, sweet-smelling fig wood from their grove. She took the boy and she bound him with strong cord, silencing him with a sad and stern glance when he protested. And the knife was in her hand now, without ever being drawn, as a dream may do.

(tears on dark lashes)

But now was the time to do right and to be strong, and she had not the will. For she knew that she should disobey - that by every law of heart and soul she _should disobey_ \- but she had built her life on obedience and she could not relent now, that was an extravagance beyond her ability, she who had thought of herself for decades as the one who obeyed. For what would her life be, if she turned away - turned to a new path, alone? How much would her family suffer? What price would they pay in consequence of her choice? She knew what was right - she knew she should throw down the knife and go out by herself, and damn the consequences _damn the consequences_ \- she knew the right thing but _she could not do it_. She must obey. The knife. It was raised.

(four words on her lips)

But at the last, at the last-

(four words on her lips)

-she looked at the bright knife. She paused. She found that there was mettle within her, hard and strong-

(four words on her lips)

-and there was only one way to pay, to hold true to everything, and so she tore her son's bonds away and raised the knife and plunged it into her _own _breast, and there was no pain but only the exhilaration, at last at last at last, and she called to the mountain with a roar of defiance as it shook around her, "Despise not this sacrifice - _I _will pay all debts!" There was a hole in her but no blood poured forth, instead there was light, there was fire…

And Hermione awoke, jerking upright with a frenzy, pawing at her chest and shrieking into the stillness of the ancient school the four words on her lips, the ones that lay in her heart under the weight of frustration and pain and sadness and exhaustion.

"**Not one more minute**!"

And the call of a bird answered her from the night sky, beyond, piercing and pure like the voice of a god.

Hermione sat upright, panting. She was fully clothed, her robes were muggy with sweat, and she felt filthy. But she felt… okay. She'd made a decision, and now it didn't matter how bad things got. She would be alone, but she would be okay.

It was like being a little kid and playing outside in the hot sun, running around and getting sticks in your hair and dirt all over your face, but knowing that when you were done, you could leap into the pool and it would be cool and clean and none of that would matter.

Once you just _committed_, you didn't have to worry.

Hermione scooted to the side and swung her feet down from the bed, her breath slowing. She stood up, tugging her robes away from her neck and loosening them, as she walked to the window. She knew what she would see.

Guilt had hung heavy on her for months, and it was a relief to have certainty at last. She wasn't religious - didn't even know how that would work in a magical world - but she believed fiercely in doing the right thing, no matter what. In her dream… well, that analogy from her subconscious was imprecise, but the emotions were right. The decision was right. She had a plan… one she'd floated last month, in desperation.

_Fiat justitia ruat caelum_, in the words of Lord Mansfield. _Let justice be done, though the heavens fall._ She would go and try and be damned. They'd tried everything they could think of, after all. There was just one last step to take.

Hermione pulled the window up and open with one hand, and leaned out.

He was the size of a swan, perhaps. His feathers were scarlet and gold, thrusting bright sparks into the moonless night with each mighty beat of his wings. His beak was black and nearly straight, with no raptor's hook to it. Flames gamboled in his warm wake, careless and free. His eyes were kindness.

_Don't be afraid_, _Hermione Granger_, the Sorting Hat had told her, more than a year ago. _Just decide where you belong._

She backed away from the window, and the phoenix streamed through with a swoop like a sudden dawn.

The phoenix called again, and in the small room it was huge and proud. It said the first word from every phoenix to every chosen person:

_Come._

Hermione smiled. She picked up her wand and pouch, and reached out her hand. The flames kissed her palm, and then there was a great clap of fire and passion.

_Granville… his name is Granville_, she thought with a flicker of amusement. They vanished.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

"Mr. Potter! I'm sorry to wake you, but there's been an emergency!"

Harry looked up from his book. "I wasn't asleep, Headmistress," he said, quietly. "Has Hermione gone?"

"She has!" The Scottish voice that spoke from the glowing cat had a hard edge to it. "What do you know of this?" Minerva McGonagall had lost so very many of her friends over the years, and so often it happened with strange events in the night. She'd lost her greatest friend of all, not too long ago. He shouldn't keep her in any suspense.

"I heard a phoenix, Headmistress," he said around the lump in his throat. He blinked rapidly, his eyes filling with tears. "I knew immediately… Hermione is going to Azkaban. She couldn't wait any more, I think. Draco told me… I didn't know what to do. I had to let her decide… you said it yourself before, she was killing herself..."

"To _Azkaban?! Alone?!_"

"Send to them and tell them to go and... No, tell them to stay with their Patronuses. They can do that much… just in case. That's for safety. But… they must let whatever is going to happen, happen. We can't..." He trailed off, and the argent cat flared with light.

"Mr. Potter!"

"We can't take away her choices!"

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_December 23rd, 1992_

_11:00 p.m._

_Azkaban_

She came in fierce tempest… in thunder and in earthquake, like a Jove.

Ten aurors sat in the command room at the top of Azkaban, that black place of death and despair. Ten aurors who were venal enough to take a despised and voluntary assignment, scorned by Shacklebolt and Bones and Moody. If none would agree to guard that place, it might have been another reason to close it… it might have made the difference. But it was quadruple pay, and some wizards and witches were able to make excuses to themselves.

Five slept and five gambled. But they were all alert soon enough, as Azkaban began to shake.

Hermione didn't know how much weight a phoenix could bear with its flame - when it vanished from one point in a fit of fire and reappeared elsewhere. Granville himself didn't know.

But whatever Granville's limits might be, they encompassed great grey spars of rock, selected from Azkaban's salt-sprayed shores. The stones were ten or twenty tonnes apiece, dropping from the sky from a kilometer above. The grim rock and metal of Azkaban endured, but cracked and danced.

Azkaban was an artificial place. It had been built by a Dark Lord centuries ago, and the Dementors had come to feast on the suffering he wrought. It was a place of eternal darkness, crafted from pain made solid stone. When he was defeated, the wizards and witches of Britain had made it a prison, to seize upon the opportunity. But the essential nature of Azkaban remained. The sun never rose. Whatever attack was happening, it was hidden by the night from their sight out the windows.

"What in Merlin's name?!" shouted Nicomedius Salamander, clutching the head of the bed as he lurched to his feet. The metal floor of the room screeched as it rolled underfoot, one edge coming free of the VeriWeld and curving upward from the stress.

"Call it in," barked Hortense Hood. "Call it in!" She struggled to the Vanishing Cabinet that linked them to the DMLE, wrestling with her robes to find the key.

Gregor Nimue and Holly Nguyễn were already on their brooms and in the air, the latter calling out, "It's from above! Keep the Patronuses up!" Rescues had been tried before, and most of them relied on the Dementors themselves. Distract or stun the aurors, and the Dementors would take care of the rest when the Patronuses dropped. It had never worked, but it was still clever.

"Alarum! Alarum!" called Salamander into his mirror, as more thunder crashed into the fortress. "We're under attack!"

A face appeared in the mirror, a wide-eyed young man that Salamander didn't know. "You're… what?! Oh Merlin… I'll get s-"

The man was cut off abruptly and the viewpoint of the mirror whipped around, showing a crazy zigzag of desk and floor and someone's shirt, and then Salamander was looking at Kingsley Shacklebolt. The man scowled bitterly. He was unshaven and missing his trademark kofia. "Get out of there. Get out of there and into the air, everybody!"

"Sir, the Dementors! We can't… the prisoners!" Salamander shouted, astonished. There was another thunderous crash, as twenty tonnes of stone hit Azkaban's roof with the force of an explosion, and the room rocked violently again.

"Keep your Patronuses active and down there, but get _out of there_! We know who it is!" shouted Shacklebolt. "_Get out man, I say!_"

Salamander clutched the mirror and shoved it into his robes as he staggered across the room. "Shacklebolt says to get in the air. Patronuses active and left here, but everyone up in the air!" He snatched a broom from the wall rack and threw it to Hood, who had gotten the bars off the Cabinet, then threw another to a second auror. "Up, up, up! Get out! They know who it is - there's some plan!"

They were airborne and out in two minutes, eight of them joining the two already aloft. Hood had paused only to activate the Vanishing Cabinet, but no one had come out. Protocol was… what had _happened_ to protocol?!

They joined Nimue and Nguyễn in the standard pattern above the Azkaban, two hundred meters up and away, out of reach of the bounce of any crashing meteors. Wind and rain whipped them until they had charms up. Comfort was almost out of mind, given what they were witnessing. Nguyễn had her mirror in hand… she must have called in as well. That was why they weren't attacking. That was why they were just… watching.

Something was flitting in and out of existence with roars of flame, leaving a welter of sparks in its wake as it sprang into the sky, and down to the shore, and up, and back, and everywhere from moment to moment. There might have been a shape there, but it was lost in rain and distance. "What is that?!" shouted Salamander to Nguyễn. "_Who_ is that?!"

"I don't know," returned the Muggleborn witch, her voice almost too low to be heard over the storm. "It look like… it's..." But she caught herself, and didn't finish the thought. Lightning flashed and thunder boomed.

A new pattern had settled in. One immense spear of rock was being used again and again - the mysterious flash of flame plucking it out of existence and then stabbing down with it from above, it looked like two kilometers now, hurtling it into one part of the prison's sloping walls over and over - in Merlin's name, was that a phoenix?! - was Albus Dumbledore here, back from where he'd gone? - and then struck such a blow that the projectile cracked in half - but now _Azkaban was cracked_, the ceiling gaped wide and the walls on that side were falling away in great chunks of metal and stone. It was unbelievable, quite literally unbelievable, and Salamander performed Jackson's Disbelieving Test just to see if he was being confunded, but it was still happening.

"The Dementors!" cried Nimue, jabbing his finger at the prison.

A stream of black cloaks was visible, rising from the center of Azkaban, illuminated by flashes of fire and the slashes of lightning that cut through the night. Several Patronuses yet remained near the top of the building, but their effect was diminished with distance and the creatures were hungry_. _He expected it was only natural for them to seek out the disturbance, to feed on it and punish it.

Salamander felt a twist in his guts. He didn't know how to feel… didn't know who this was… didn't know what was happening. It was an uncertainty not common to an auror. He steadied himself against the wind and turned to look at Hood, but she looked stricken, as well. This was… too _big_ for them…

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

Hermione had thought she wouldn't be afraid, but that was silly. Of course she was afraid. She might very well die. She'd just realized… well, that wasn't as important as it might have seemed, that's all.

If they wouldn't close Azkaban, then Hermione would _break_ it.

She wasn't certain, but she thought she could use her expectations like a weapon - like Harry had told her and demonstrated - to restrain the Dementors while she did this, even if she couldn't destroy them. She would batter this prison open, _expect_ the Dementors to leave, and rescue the nine people on the bottom level. The aurors could guard the _rubble _she would leave behind, if this place meant so much to them.

Granville clutched her back, easily bearing her weight, his talons gripping the back of her robes firmly and pulling them tight against her chest. That part didn't make much sense, of course: biology would suggest that Granville was far too small to do that - he wasn't a Haast's Eagle, for goodness' sake. But magic and flame kept them aloft, and the phoenix was so happy and so proud that it shrieked out great glorious cries as they swooped and vanished with cracking bursts of flame.

They would hold for a moment in the air, and she would point at a stone - did she even need to point? - and then there would be a wash of heat through her body, as though she were being consumed by fire in a peculiarly pleasant way… and they would be where she'd pointed. Granville would swoop down, and Hermione would clutch the boulder she'd chosen, spitting out the sea's salt as it was whipped into her mouth by the wind, and then they'd be burning once more as Granville took them away, vanishing from the world for a thought's span.

She couldn't actually lift the rocks, but that didn't seem to matter: they were scooped up along with Granville and dropped back into reality, a kilometer above Azkaban, to plunge down and smash into the prison.

They did it a dozen times, two dozen times, before she started choosing even larger rocks, and they began appearing even higher up. Hermione couldn't see how much damage they were doing, with the lashing rain and little light, but she could see the prison shake and shudder. She was afraid to get closer for an inspection, even if it was only for a flame-filled moment… she was afraid to get too close to the Dementors. She was _expecting_ them to stay cowering in the bottom for now, expecting that behavior as hard as she could - a peculiar feeling, to try to force yourself to believe in a future prediction - but she didn't trust that.

There were aurors still down there, she thought; she could see three small creatures of glowing silver. No, they were there, on brooms. They weren't interfering… she'd known - she'd _hoped_ that they would stand down. Though they agreed to stand this guard, nonetheless they were the type of person who could cast a Patronus Charm. There was good in them. And here, while they watched, they would expect the Dementors to stay in the pit, where they always stayed. That would help.

Granville didn't seem to be getting tired… she didn't know if phoenix travel would ever tire him, or if the burden mattered. His joyful cries had no trace of weariness or fear. Phoenixes had a purpose, unlike any evolved creature. Their purpose was right action, regardless of consequences or danger. Granville looked upon the black bitterness of Azkaban and burned with joyful war.

She saw a thick finger of rock like a spear - too dark and wet to see what exactly it was made of - and Granville took her there, holding her firmly, and swooping down from a few feet away, the warm wash of his golden light illuminating everything. She bumped against the rock and grabbed onto it, her fingers digging into the stone until the crushed grit filled the space under her nails - and they were gone again, burning up with joy and flame, the whole world reconfiguring in a scarlet eyeblink to place them hundreds of meters above Azkaban… two kilometers or more, now.

Hermione released the stone the instant they appeared - could she have held on, and dragged the phoenix down with her? - and it plummeted straight down like a blade, and hit Azkaban with a cracking boom - Cra-KOOM! - bouncing away from the impact and bounding down the steep sides of Azkaban's cliffs, end over end. That was good. Again.

They snatched up the finger of rock, now scarred with impact, and repeated the procedure. Cra-KOOM! Again and again. Cra-KOOM! They could hit twice a minute or so, now, girl and phoenix working in unspoken harmony, united by the battlesong in their hearts. Cra-KOOM!

They could have done this _six months ago_, she realized, gritting her teeth as she reached out her arms to clutch the spear-stone. Minutes after minute had passed for six months, and they could have acted _immediately_ after the Wizengamot vote failed. If you could control where the Dementors went with your expectations, then it didn't even matter that she couldn't destroy them, and they could have done this _six months ago_. Maybe not with Dementors, and Harry couldn't have been seen to help if he wanted his plans to stay on track, but she could stand out. She could stand alone. She could have done this.

She would never wait again. Never allow suffering when she could stop it. Not one more minute.

Cra-KOOM! went the stone, and Azkaban broke. She could see it from here, thrust one fist out at the sight, and Granville shrieked a cry of joy that thrilled her to her core, and she shouted wordless exuberance into the wind.

But the Dementors came.

The breaching of the walls had brought them - or rather, the breaching of the walls had made the aurors expect them to attack. It was natural, and obvious, and Hermione felt very stupid as she scrubbed the water out of her eyes with her sleeve. Lightning flashed, and fluttering black cloaks rose from Azkaban like soiled bits of paper caught in the wind.

Granville wheeled, her thought and his joined as one will, and climbed away, soaring quickly as she craned her head back around to see. Ribbons of flame followed in their wake, and the Dementors rose in a column to pursue. It didn't make any sense that the Dementors flew around rather than - no, what was she doing, why would she even start to think about that, never mind.

She guided Granville up and into the sky as she thought, ignoring the storm and taking a moment's comfort in the warm touch of her phoenix's light. _They're slow and they're moving in a swarm… I just need to keep my distance._

She focused on a spar of rock on the other side of the island, one blocked from sight now but that she'd noticed before. A rush of flame burned through her, erupting within her flesh and igniting her clothing, and Granville brought her there. Looking up, Hermione could see the Dementors following. She waited… waited… almost a full minute as they swept down in a black cloud of nightmare, and then she seized the rock, and Granville took her away with a tide of fire.

Hermione let the rock fall, so high now that she couldn't even see the Dementors, and they hung there for a minute, listening to the cacophony of the boulder's impact. Granville beat the air with crimson wings, sparks flickering out all around them with each stroke. _I can do this all evening. Let them chase me... I'll batter their home until it gapes open, then we'll fly down and rescue the prisoners, one by one. _She knew intimately where each was located, had been to visit each cell many times (though she hadn't gone in each one… for a few of them, that had been too much). _And then I'll crush this hell to dust._

She waited until they could see the Dementors streaming up at them once more, and barked a short, harsh laugh that would have surprised her friends, and then Granville took her in flames to Azkaban's base, and hung there, beating sparks down and crying a great caw into the storm. _You are death and you can fly, but we are _life_ and we can _teleport. When the fluttering black cloaks descended on her out of the night, highlighted by flashing lightning, she seized the rock and Granville covered them over and through with fire, and they were gone again.

An instant of flame later, they were back in the world. The dark and terrible world of storm, rushing around them with battering wind and rain. A world of pain and madness. No joy, not really, since it all had an end. An end where you were alone. Every living thing dies alone.

The phoenix heat in Hermione's heart flickered and went out as though it had never been. The boulder fell from her nerveless fingers, but she didn't even realize it. Granville made a strangled cry, and his golden flames dimmed.

Distantly, Hermione remembered that aurors were trained to flank their enemies. To anticipate their movements.

They expected it.

Granville turned them in place, with two faltering beats of his wings, and she saw the Dementor behind them. A dozen of them had spread across the sky. They'd been waiting.

The Dementor rushed them, and now Hermione could really see it, and it was a rotting corpse, fingertips peeled away into bone talons, mouth agape with lust and hunger, black cloaking billowing out in the wind behind it. It had _eyes_, and they held a promise in them as they met Hermione's gaze.

Granville shrieked in defiance once more, and beat his wings strongly, but the moment of hesitation had been too long. The Dementor washed into them and over them and through them, and Granville crumpled in on himself. His golden flames dulled and his cry caught in his throat, and they were

falling.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

Salamander gasped, and it was then he knew what he'd been hoping. He realized he'd been cheering for that faceless figure of flame and joy, as it smashed Azkaban over and over until the stone flew. He knew there were good reasons to keep the place open - he never would have wanted to release Dolokhov or Sarian or the others - but… to see this…

The golden glory of fire that had burned like a small sun over the prison had faded into faintness, and dropped out of sight.

Hood and Nguyễn shouted as well, and Salamander wasn't sure if they felt the same as him. Nguyễn looked stricken, though, when Salamander looked over at her. She looked sick.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

There was a moment's relief - a few second's respite as they plunged further away from the Dementor. Hermione spun and tossed in the wind, and screamed. Granville's light flooded back, gold and crimson illuminating them once more, and he caught himself back up into flight with a beat of his wings. Hermione fell, and Granville pulled into a dive after her. Dementors surged towards them, their cloaks whipping behind them as they plunged towards their meal.

Hermione fell for six seconds.

It was long enough for her to snatch her wand from its holster in her sleeve, to pull it free.

It was long enough for Granville to call out, shrieking with a cry that split the night as surely as any lightning.

It was long enough for her to remember.

_I'm not sure I really believe that death will ever end_, she thought, as she fell towards Azkaban. _There will always be accidents, even if we get to the point where we sail the stars and forget about age. And I think I'll always be afraid of dying alone, and no happy thought is ever going to put that out of mind._

Her robes whipped wildly as her wand came to hand.

_I don't really reject death as the natural order, since it's a part of the universe in a deep way. Even if humanity evolves past it, there will be suns and galaxies that die and are reborn. In time, there would be an end to the world, and its magic, and that would be a death even if humans survived it to soar out into space. And there will always be people who want to die… just to leave pain behind._

_I don't agree with Harry, not exactly._

Her fingers slid along the wand, just the right way.

_Harry's thought isn't my thought. But I have my own. Since I do think death shall be mastered, if not ended. I have my own thought. Just like everyone has their own way to do the regular Patronus. The True Patronus is about defeating death… believing that we will overcome it… death as a thing to master and leash to our will… we just need to work together… we can do it… _I_ can do it…_

_Because even if it seems impossible now..._

Her hand thrust forward.

_**I can do anything if I study hard enough**_**.**

And she whispered into the wind.

"Expecto Patronum."

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

Salamander's breath caught in his throat when he saw the light which erupted from the tiny falling figure. It began as an argent glow to join the phoenix flame which had surged down to catch the caster. The silver light of a Patronus.

But it wasn't right… because it was neither mist nor animal. It was just a roar of silver light, blooming brighter and brighter until Salamander couldn't even look at it anymore.

It began like a star, dropping down into the prison, but...

For the first time in all the centuries since the vile island and loathsome fortress had been hewn from hatred and had risen from the ocean, dawn had come to Azkaban.

The silver light covered the world.

And when it receded, the Dementors were gone. And Azkaban had fallen. Entire floors had cracked and peeled open and pulled away, leaving only the jagged stub of the bottom three levels.

Though it was his place to obey and to guard, nonetheless Salamander felt joy. He had to feel joy… he didn't think anyone could be touched by that light and feel anything else. All the others felt the same, as he glanced around, squinting against the wind. There were smiles on everyone's faces, mixed with astonishment or outright awe.

He saw Nguyễn mouthing something, and he understood it perfectly, despite the rain and night and tumult.

"Goddess," Nguyễn said. "It's a goddess."


	17. Brute Existent

Wiglaf maðelode, Wihstanes sunu:

"Oft sceall eorl monig anes willan

wræc adreogan, swa us geworden is.

Ne meahton we gelæran leofne þeoden,

rices hyrde, ræd ænigne,

þæt he ne grette gold-weard þone,

lete hyne licgean, þær he longe wæs,

wicum wunian oð woruld-ende;

heold on heah gesceap.

Wiglad, son of Weohstan, spoke:

"Often when one man follows his own will

many are hurt. This happened to us.

Nothing we advised could ever convince

the prince we loved, our land's guardian,

not to vex the custodian of the gold,

let him lie where he was long accustomed,

lurk there under earth until the end of the world.

He held to his high destiny.

_Beowulf_

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_From the desk of the Tower Clinic Ombudsman:_

To Whom It May Concern:

I would like to register an official complaint regarding the behavior of Owen Wilifred, a healer in your employ whom I had the misfortune to encounter this past October. I raise bicorn for a living, and do it better than anyone else in the Hollow. Even the Jugsons bought extract from me exclusively, and I daresay their Polyjuice and Waggum Potions lasted a fair bit longer than they'd have done if they'd bought off of old Weatherbee. But when I was a younger man, I was stabbed through the hand by one of the beasts. St. Mungo's mucked up the healing charm, and it's ached every winter since. So I was pleased to hear about the rejuvenation up at the Tower that the Boy-Who-Lived was offering.

I went to the Godric's Hollow Safety Pole and had myself checked out by the folks there, and then touched the thing and winked right out. Next thing I know, I'm on a bed and this squirrely-looking bloke is sitting there and watching me. He and another fellow ask me a whole mess of queer questions and put me through my paces on my history, and then they start poking me. I had brought a portrait of mine that's very well-done, good light and a good movement on it, but they barely glanced at it. They just babbled some nonsense. I checked my pockets before I went in, and it's a good thing, because I found a Galleon on the floor under me, that they'd arranged to have fall there so they could get it later. I wasn't born yesterday, nor the day before, and I know how to run a proper swindle. I wouldn't have minded paying, which is why I brought the money, but I can't stand a swindle. This Wilifred (I got his name before I left) wouldn't knock off the trick he was talking about… this whole German swindle of "the beat ease." He made me sit while he put his wand to my chest and did not do a bloody thing! I am no fool, and I know well enough that I'm not as hale as a young man. But slowing down a bit and getting glasses is normal, and I've always been a bit thin. It was the insult I resent! Mr. Wilifred didn't proper respect me, and I haven't spent fifty years building up the best bicorn in Britain just for some young swindler to try to pull the wool over my eyes. He was softening me up and would've asked for the deed to me house in return if he hadn't seen I wasn't going for it.

I got my Galleon back, shook Mr. Potter's hand, and got out of there. And never you mind the money, and I am sure full grateful about the hand, which is much better. Having that pain away has quickened my step, I'll tell you. But I would like to complain in full about Mr. Wilifred, who you should sack right away. The lad is a swindler.

Sincerely,

J. Ymir Ytterbar

Ytterbar's Bicorn

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_If the Tower has done the world any favors, it might be in uniting so many against him. By attempting to remake everything in his own cruel image, Harry Potter has made allies of enemies and friends of foes. And what is more, he has done this throughout the whole world. The ranks of those who sympathize with the global resistance to his tyranny - a group that is now known as the "Honourable," I admit with a blush - come from every walk of life._

_In Britain, those who defended the traditional rule of noble houses are joined with those who advocated for Muggle-style elected houses… for neither party could accept a brash new boy-dictator, whose claim to power lies only in force._

_In the Orient, those who have railed against the traditional British leadership in the Confederation are joined with those sought closer alliance with it, since the strength of British dominance in that body is irrelevant if the dominance is founded on intimidation and bloodshed._

_In the Americas, the outright violence done by Harry Potter with a Muggle weapon in an attack on an old institution - an attack falsely done in my name, though no one can name why I would do this! - will bring together Americans of every stripe, rebelling against their Imperiused leadership._

_Unless someone stops the Tower, then he will soon rule the whole world, crushing it in the grip of the porcelain automatons that replace those poor victims who go to be "rejuvenated." Independence should be no threat to anyone… anyone who does not plan to rule the world as its master, that is._

Excerpt from "Needful Allies," by Draco Malfoy

Unbreakable Honour

Vol 4 (1999), Issue 10

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

"Everyone's here, so I think we can get started," said Harry, as Diggory briskly walked in, a manila folder in hand. Auror Kwannon followed him, a stack of parchments in her arms.

The Chief Auror and Head of the DMLE, who was late, smiled and shrugged as he sat down at the meeting table. "Sorry, everyone. Emergencies today… two attempts on the Unspeakables, yesterday and today. Someone tried to Imperius Geraldine, and we discovered an outstanding theft from the vaults. Anyone have a copy of the agenda?"

Harry nodded, and slid a parchment over to him. "I can help you on the theft, I think… but we'll get to that one later."

Harry had found that it was important to have an agenda and stick to it - no chit-chat or the like - otherwise these meetings sprawled out of control, and nothing got done. A high-level meeting was seldom the best place for open discussion or brainstorming solutions; they were for sharing information and making decisions.

Administrative skills were a bigger part of his life than he'd ever thought they would be. He had four regular meetings a week - a faculty meeting with the Tower School of Doubt, a meeting with the heads of research (not _all_ of them… the twenty-five departments were consolidated into four different groups), a meeting with the Tower clinic healers and aurors (technically it was the John Snow Center for Medicine, but not even Harry used that name at this point), and this one: the meeting with Magical Britain's Powers That Be.

And none of those even touched his other ventures, such as managing his money and charities (his current assets were now equivalent to that of a small country, quite literally), or teaching, or other pet projects. And the time he didn't spend doing _that_ he was spending with Hermione or the Shichinin or Moody.

For someone who'd spent most of their boyhood in a relatively solitary and frustrated existence, he'd somehow transformed into a man who spent most of his life _managing _people. It would be so much easier if they would just do what he said… he could do ten times as much if he didn't have to argue… so many more people could be saved...

_That's a Voldemort thought_, he considered. _Short-sighted and stupid._ _Whatever benefits in efficiency and speed I might gain, I would lose the benefit of other people's ideas and opinions if began to _command_ rather than _manage_… and the entire point of our increasing democratic reforms, with the Tribunes and so on, is to employ the wisdom of crowds while providing more opportunities for outliers in achievement to rise in station. And if you're going to build a merit-based democracy, you'd better start at home._

Harry looked around the table. Cedric Diggory and Hedley Kwannon for the DMLE, Amelia Bones for the Wizengamot and Confederation, Percy Weasley for the Ministry, Simon Smith for the Returned (since Hermione was busy), Haddad and Podrut for the goblins (and a general outsider perspective), and Mafalda Hopkirk for the Unspeakables. They'd need to get someone from the Council over here, soon, to speak for Hig.

"Percy, would you start us off?" Harry said, glancing at the serious-looked redhead.

Weasley cleared his throat and glanced down at the parchment in front of him before beginning.

"We've gotten a few of the integration facilities in operation already. The logistics weren't very difficult, thanks to the help of some people from the Obliviator squads. They have a lot of experience in sanitizing contact between the two worlds." He glanced down at the parchment in front of him. "I promoted Klaus Gage to head of one of the squads, based on his performance. I think it might make sense to have that squad start to specialize in deliberate contact, like these facilities." Weasley looked up at Harry again, questioningly. "Since I assume we'll be scaling this up in the future…?"

Harry nodded. "Yes. Make a note, though… we need a better name for the program. 'Integration facility' makes us sound like we're… I don't know, Morlocks or something. These are restaurants and movie theatres." His hair was loose, and he pushed it back behind his ears absent-mindedly as he spoke.

"Music should be the next, I think, Mr. Weasley" said Mafalda Hopkirk, and the Senior Undersecretary nodded respectfully. The Venerable Unspeakable looked to be a voluptuous twenty years old, but still managed an air of authority when she spoke. It must be an acquired skill or habit, Harry reflected, since - according to most standards - her appearance no longer matched her gravitas. Ample _décolletage, _blonde hair, and blue eyes… but when she snapped at her subordinates, they jumped to obey like she was Merwyn the Malicious. It would probably be too much to hope that basic expectations had actually changed… that the society of Magical Britain had really begun to adjust to rejuvenation in a fundamental way. That would come in time.

"For right now, both restaurants and the theatre are losing money, hand over fist. Only moderate patronage, but high costs for wages, security, and so on. But we expected that." Weasley glanced at his notes again. "Oh, yes, one thing that should help is that Sylvia de Kamp just did a feature on Siegfried's for _American Mage_, and _The Daily Prophet _will be carrying it, as well. Apparently she was astonished, and she spends a thousand words in rapture over her 'adventurous Muggle dining experience.' "

"I went there," Chief Goldsmith Haddad said. "Had some beef. Quite tasty, I must say." Everyone at the table generally understood that this was both explicit approval of the restaurant and implicit approval of its inclusive policies towards potential patrons. Veauregard's Victuals, the leading fine dining establishment in Diagon Alley, did not permit goblins or any other Beings on the premises (except for the house elves that prepared the food).

Bones said nothing, but her lips grew tight. That discomfort wasn't unexpected, after having spent so much time with her. _Even people we like and admire are products of their environment. It doesn't matter if she particularly likes the idea, as long as she intellectually accepts and agrees not to oppose the mingling of wizards and Beings. Many people have racist grandparents, but that doesn't make the grandparents bad people unless they're actively doing racist things - at least when we're speaking about "bad" and "good" in terms of preference utilitarianism. Having irrational or evil instincts or subconscious beliefs doesn't make you irrational or evil, if you don't act on them._

_In fact_, he considered_, her beliefs might make Amelia a particularly _good_ person. She's uncomfortable with some of the more personal aspects of this equality movement, like the idea of her niece dining at the same table as a goblin, or bringing them into the government and working with them so closely, but she overrules her baser instinct and does the right thing anyway. She might always be awkward around Haddad, Podrut, Urg, or the others, but she's being as good as she can be._

"Moving on," said Weasley, "I am unhappy to report that an envoy from the Strategos of Cappadocia paid me a visit last week, demanding I put him on the schedule for Minister N'Goma. I obliged, of course, but discussed the purpose of his visit a bit."

Simon Smith, a fleshy Scot and one of Hermione's Returned, leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. He looked evenly at Weasley with flat brown eyes, emotional but somehow hollow, and said evenly, "Nikitas Seyhan."

"Of course it's bloody well Nikitas Seyhan," snapped Bones at the same time Weasley, more mildly, said "Yes, that's-"

There was a brief pause as each waited for the other to continue. Bones crossed her arms and only frowned. With her tight brown bun, it made her look severe. Weasley continued, his mouth twisting slightly in amusement at her outburst.

"Yes, the Seyhan fellow. He broke the Statute of Secrecy, they claim, and they're arguing that we're in violation of the Statute if we don't return him home, to be punished in accordance with Clauses 74, 75, and 76."

Harry didn't know the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy in detail; he glanced at Bones and Haddad in succession to invite their interpretation. Bones had decades of experience in its international application, and Haddad was a trained lawyer with almost as much knowledge of how the Confederation acted to enforce it.

They glanced at each other, and Haddad spoke up. He tapped a finger thoughtfully on the table. "Probably a good case for it. You're - we're - sheltering Seyhan, and his sentence wasn't finished. It is a way for the Independents to attack under cover of law. I suppose that Germany or Norden could have made the same complaints at any time, but… well, Cappadocia was the first overtly disagreeable place that the Returned have struck."

"Surely we have the votes to simply ignore them… Madame Bones?" said Diggory. "Could we win an arbitration vote in the Confederation?"

"Easily," said Bones. "But it would cost us in public perception… particularly in the Ten Thousand. The Westphalians will use it against us to demand even more concessions. And it might complicate matters with Kenya… after the Free States and Nigeria joined the Treaty for Health and Life, Kenya opened up a dialogue on the quiet with one of our Confederation delegates, looking for, ah, 'considerations.' But major controversy or the appearance of lawlessness might drive them away. They wouldn't join the Independents, I don't think, but… well, it would be a setback."

The Treaty of Independence was still limited in its scope to a handful of states, fortunately: Cappadocia, Caucasus, most of the Sawad, and Russia. It was an idea borrowed from Muggle politics - actually, borrowed from Harry himself, in terms of the Cold War.

In the early days, when Draco had been working on planning for the future with Harry and Hermione, Harry had once floated the idea of including a mutual-defense pact in the Treaty for Health and Life - a way to dramatically raise the stakes in case of potential conflict. Now the Honourable were using it to set a tone of heroic defiance and to unite opposition to the Health and Life programmes. It had given the Council of Westphalia - or their puppets in the American governments, anyway - even more leverage in the ongoing negotiations, since it provided a viable alternative to what might otherwise seem an inevitable eventual outcome.

"Seyhan is at Powis?" Harry asked Simon. The Returned nodded. "How would Hermione feel about returning him to Cappadocia, if necessary? Their Dementors are gone… he would presumably be going into their normal prison."

"If he chooses to go, he may. But we won't return him against his will." Simon said. He didn't emphasize his words or raise his voice. This was an old problem that had started the moment Azkaban fell: Hermione believed the Dementation was punishment enough for any conceivable crime, and had unilaterally declared that those who had come back from that hell would always have a place with her.

It wasn't that Harry disagreed about Azkaban or the Dementors, of course: they had been vile beyond words, and no one - literally _no one_ \- deserved to be tortured to death in that way. He'd agreed unhesitatingly to her declaration. The ones she'd personally rescued had mostly been institutionalized, except for Odette Charlevoix, and many of those who had been transferred to Britain's remaining prison, the Howard House of Reform, had simply served out their relatively short sentences and had gone free without controversy. Others, though… well, Simon himself, for example, was a convicted murderer… but once he'd regained enough sanity to function, he'd walked free, and joined the newly-formed Returned.

In the months afterward, they'd taken a beating in public opinion for freeing so many criminals. Some people, like Walden Macnair, had been apparent successes - Macnair lived a quiet life enchanting broomsticks, now - but others had returned to fraud, robbery… or worse activities.

After a time, Harry had proposed new trials and mundane prisons for people like Charlevoix and Simon. Hermione had flatly rejected it, even after Harry pointed out that every month that this cost them in advancing their plans, politically, was another month during which people would die.

"It would save lives," Harry said. "It's cold, I know, but if giving Seyhan back to Cappadocia would improve our image with Kenya and the Ten Thousands, and speed things up with the American states, that's… hundreds of lives." He did some rough calculations in his head. Seventy thousand wizards or so in the United States… death rate in magical societies in the developed world was usually about four deaths a day for every thousand people... "In the United States alone, something like… three hundred wizards die every day. Every day matters."

"Every person matters," Simon replied. But he wasn't really arguing, since he would never countermand Hermione. Like the rest of the Returned, he would have cut off his hands if she'd told him to. Harry would have to wait to speak to her directly, if he wanted to change her mind. Not that it would do much good.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

"_Imagine if you had to choose between someone being tortured for fifty years," Harry said to Hermione. "Or a billion people getting a dust speck in their eye for a second, irritating them for an instant. No, not a billion… a googol people getting a dust speck. That's-"_

"_Ten with a hundred zeroes after it," Hermione interrupted. "And you want me to choose which of those would be the better outcome?"_

"_Yes. You have to weigh the aggregate discomfort of so many against the torture of one. If a googol isn't enough, make it a googolplex… ten to the googol power people."_

"_There aren't a googolplex of atoms in the galaxy, I wouldn't think, much less a googolplex of people," Hermione said, thoughtfully._

"_Yes, but it's a number so big that it makes us confront our scope insensitivity. You don't picture an individual or even a crowd… you think about the numbers rationally, instead. A staggering amount of minute pains outweighs the suffering of any one person."_

"_Careful, Harry. You could justify a lot with that reasoning. And the answer is no. Charlevoix is going back to France, to visit her children. They want to see her, and she's going to try to find some connection to them… maybe recover some memories of them, if possible. She'll be meeting with people in their Ministry of Magic, too… might help with getting them to join the Treaty, someday."_

"_We could wait for her to come back. And it would be a fair trial."_

"_That will be her choice. She'll have a place with me, otherwise, until she chooses to go. She's paid any debt she might possibly owe the world… find another human sacrifice."_

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

"Fine," Harry said to Simon, sighing. "I'll revisit this with the lady herself."

"We should muddy the waters, so it doesn't seem clear-cut," said Bones. "Give us something to talk about for our own part, when they bring this up. The son of the Strategos of Cappadocia was accused of breaking the Statute about a decade ago, as I recall… maybe that will work well."

"Sir? Sorry to interrupt," came a voice at the door. It was Auror Pip, pushing a hand truck. Standing upright on the truck and being wheeled along, frozen in place and stunned, was a thin-faced older man. Balding, but with great muttonchop whiskers. The man's face was frozen in a snarl, and his fingers were still curled around a now-absent wand, caught in the act of casting. There was a large bloodstain, still wet, on the man's thigh.

"That's Moody, yes," Harry said, smiling. "Good work."

Pip grinned - _he'd_ gotten Mad-Eye Moody! Most of the Tower aurors had already done so - J.C. had gotten him eight times, now - but this was his first Moody. He drew his wand and dispelled the Stunning Hex. Pip couldn't wait to tell his mum.

Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody's arms relaxed, and he worked his jaw experimentally for a moment. "Hell. This one got me?" His disguise - if a Transfigured body could be said to be a disguise - was a good one. He'd given Harry some pictures and instructions yesterday: this was another lycanthrope, but with space for a secret wand inside the thigh. A combination of prior attempts. Lycanthropes were still immune to the automatic stunning effect on the Safety Poles and Safety Sticks, so Moody had tried them for his intrusion attempts before, and he'd taken the Ultimate Ulna idea from Hermione.

"Yes, sir," said Pip, brightly. He smiled broadly and nodded to Harry, and left the room to return to his post.

"So, Alastor… Pip stunned you, this time," Bones said. The young-looking witch was working to keep a straight face. "My, my."

Moody shuffled over to a chair and sat in it, gingerly, as if his bones hurt. "Didn't put much planning into this one… just standard… keep them on their toes," he said, in a hoarse voice. He shot Diggory a purposeful glance when he opened his mouth to speak. The Chief Auror thought better of it… though he couldn't stop from smiling. Everyone sat politely for a moment longer, while Moody sorted himself out.

"Well then, Mr. Moody," said Weasley. "We were just discussing the possibility of returning Nikitas Seyhan to Cappadocia, since they're making a bit of a fuss about it at the Confederation. Mr. Smith here, however, indicates that this won't be happening, so Madame Bones prop-"

"Pfah," snorted Moody. "You're all as sharp as blind-worms. Me sitting here like this, and you're worried about having to hand over a fugitive?"

Harry smiled suddenly, and leaned forward. "But if he minds?"

"How long was he there?" Moody asked.

"Oh! Yes!" said Bones, smiling as well. "Er… he was in Göreme for twelve years, I believe."

"Then any happy associations he had are long gone," replied Moody, "so I doubt he'll protest… if he's even fit to protest about anything at all, after twelve years."

Harry glanced around the table, noting some expressions of puzzlement and some smiles at the solution. He explained, "Moody is suggesting we simply change his face and say that we've lost track of him."

"Or, better yet," said Diggory, "hand over a fake corpse."

"The Optimates of the Eleusinian Mysteries once did that," said Haddad, in his accented English. "During the Social War… back when death dolls were undetectable. Wanted to keep the Muggles of the Latin provinces in check, and so they made a big show of parading some heroic wizard corpses all through the city. The actual wizards, still quite alive, attacked Paeligni. Didn't succeed - oppression seldom succeeds in the long run - but a clever trick."

Harry frowned at the goblin, and Mafalda Hopkirk broke her silence to mutter, "Subtle."

There was an awkward pause.

"Anyway, let's get some sort of plan in place there. Moody, you'll handle it?" Harry said, glancing over at today's Moody. The balding lycanthrope nodded, looking irritable. "Whatever we do," Harry continued, "I do think it's time to begin putting some distance between the Tower and the Returned."

Diggory nodded in approval. "You're anticipating more confrontation, and you want Ms. Granger to be able to act with a free hand." It was widely rumored that Cedric Diggory was infatuated with the Goddess, and had made several attempts to ask her out. Harry wondered if that might affect his judgment, but he still seemed to be thinking straight when it came to Hermione and the Returned.

"Yes, I think-" But Harry broke off what he was saying when Diggory and Kwannon, followed a second later by Moody and Smith, leapt out of their seats, springing to the two doors into the meeting room. Diggory and Kwannon went to one, while Moody and Smith went to the other. They'd slammed and secured and warded the doors in a matter of moments, and continued to cast wards as the other wizards and witches in the room - slower to react, and not privy to the signal that had alerted Diggory and Kwannon - joined them and began casting. Harry got out of his seat and drew his wand, but remained away from the doors.

The spells were already thick within the Tower, and there was only so much more magical security that could be had, and so it was only a few minutes before the aurors, Smith, Bones, and Weasley were assuming battle positions, standing in spots staggered around the room, in a pattern designed to avoid most effective area spells. Diggory felt free to pull out his auror mirror, then, and bubble the guards on the inner door. He held the mirror so that most of the people in the room could see it.

"Kraeme, report."

Auror J.C. Kraeme's face appeared in the mirror. She looked calm. "Intrusion in the Receiving Room, sir. We've sealed the Tower entrance, and no attempt has been made on it. They're still fighting - we can hear it from here."

"Put the bubbler on a chair or something, J.C.," said Diggory. "Leave it open, so we know what's going on, but keep your eyes on that door."

The perspective of the bubbler - which looked like nothing so much as one of the small mirrored compacts that Muggles use for makeup - shifted and moved around, and finally settled at a level that looked waist-high to Auror Kraeme and Auror Pip, the entrance guards. It showed the entrance to the Tower, but the golden door had been completed obscured by a huge and heavy-looking silver plate, ornately decorated, that had been rolled into a frame in front of the entrance. Harry glanced over at Podrut, and smiled despite the tension to see the obvious pride on the goblin's face. He'd made the security hatch.

Everyone waited, tensely. Moody stood in a corner, his wand pointed towards one of the doors... and towards everyone else in the room ("I know a traitor will eliminate the biggest threats first, and you're the best avenue of attack," is how he had once explained it, after he and Harry had gone into lockdown earlier this month, during a similar alert, and Moody had spent the entire time with his wand pointed at Harry.)

"Quiet out there, now," commented Pip, glancing back at the mirror. Kraeme quieted him with a harsh glance.

They had to wait. Very few methods of communication were possible between the Tower and the outside world. It was a security precaution, but it made moments like this one particularly tense.

After another ten minutes or so, a pattern of knocks was audible on the silver plate. Kraeme nodded to Pip, who approached it, and knocked several times. There were two knocks in response, and Pip visibly brightened. "It's correct," he reported to the senior auror, and she grunted in affirmation and turned towards the mirror for orders. "Today's pattern, sir."

"Open it up," replied Diggory. Pip nodded, and reached for the heavy latch that held the plate in place. Harry was going to agree and congratulate the two door guards on their caution, but found himself unable to say that - as though the words simply did not exist in English to express any such sentiment.

"Wait!" he choked out, instead. Pip's hand froze on the gleaming metal handle.

Harry turned to Moody, who had his wand pointing at him. "Moody, how often are the knocks changed?"

"Every month," said Moody. "I _wanted_ every week, but training has gotten lax, and they kept mucking it up."

_True_, thought Harry, remembering. _Cedric had complained that the Tower security was so redundant and required so many different, frequently-changing protocols, that they were spending entire days each month sorting through false positives. Security protocols were an investment like anything else, and there were diminishing returns. The fact that there seemed to be some sort of problem - since Harry's Unbreakable Vow wouldn't let him agree to opening the door - didn't necessarily prove Cedric wrong, either. After all, Moody still hadn't been able to get inside, and he'd been very motivated to embarrass Cedric and prove his point._

"And was it changed after the lockdown earlier this month - that time when you spent twenty minutes menacing me?" asked Harry, raising his eyebrows. He pulled a stretchy hair-tie from one pocket as he spoke, and put his hair in a ponytail.

"No," said Diggory, heavily, looking embarrassed. Auror Kwannon, standing near the door with him, looked pale.

Moody had a fierce look of triumph on his muttonchopp-whiskered face. "And here you were, all excited about Pip stunning me."

"Not now, Alastor," snapped Bones. Her attention was still fixed on the bubbler.

"Sir?" asked Auror Kraeme.

"Just a moment, J.C. I'll send my Patronus." Diggory replied. "_Expecto Patronum!_"

A silvery bat flapped into existence, shedding argent light on the tense faces within the meeting room. "Go and speak to Harry Madagascar in the Receiving Room, and ask him what is going on."

There was another long minute, then the bat swung back into the room, and spoke in the high-pitched voice of Auror Herrera, "We gave the correct knock, Mr. Diggory, I'm sure of it. The situation is under control."

"Bear back the words, 'Monkey monkey monkey,' " said Diggory to his Patronus.

"I like bananas, dress me like a doll," replied Herrera, after the glowing bat had made the trip and returned. It was the correct response.

Diggory looked to Harry, who nodded in approval, then he turned to the bubbler. "Open it up, Pirrip." There was still a risk, given the mistake in operational security this month, but the Thief's Downfall before the Tower entrance and the exceptional magical defenses of the facility were more than enough of a margin of safety.

Everyone relaxed a little, only to tense up again in a moment, as another sharp report came through the bubbler.

"There are prisoners!" shouted Kraeme. "And they're _students_!"


	18. Protagonists

_Excerpt from a speech given on the floor of the Council of Westphalia by Reg Hig:_

This is not the ideal world, witches and wizards of the Council. In the ideal world, we would not be concerned about getting the best deal… we would be the ones setting the terms. In the ideal world, Merlin would never have used force to master magic-kind in every state and nation, and placed us all under ten generations of British dominance. In the ideal world, this Council would not even be necessary, and our purpose - the protection of the rights of every people - _every people_, I say, Councilor Strongbound, goblins and centaurs included! - would be a _fait accompli_.

But we don't live in that ideal world. We live in this world, and if we wish to responsibly advise the leaders of the Americas, we must view the world with clear eyes. It's not enough to see the world as it _should be_… we must also see how it _is_. If your wand is broken, no amount of wishing and bloviating will make it work… you must fix it, and only then can you curse your enemies!

We have all seen terrible things, and fought terrible villains. I remember the fires of Grindelwald's scum, and the green light of Voldemort's death-dealing. This is a fight that is no less serious, and it needs serious people. It needs people who can act with a free hand.

I urge this Council to vote in favor of the proposal, and empower our negotiators… let them have the power to strike and relent as necessary, rather than hobbling them with intercontinental shackles. Let us take this moment and seize our opportunities! Let us arm our negotiators with a sword, so they may strike down our foes and cut through our shackles! I urge you all: vote in favor!

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

Lawrence Ludwig Bradwian was special. He'd been special almost from the moment he was born. His great-aunt Corliss had been both a seer and a famous Keeper for the Wimbourne Wasps, and at the moment that Ludwig was born, she had fallen from her broom in a trance - letting the Quaffle through the goal - and had prophesied that a child of her family had been born who would " bring down a great house in a time of endless strife, when all the worlds narrow to two." The goal was more widely reported than the prophecy, since it was the Chudley Cannons' first goal of the season, but nonetheless everyone knew that Lawrence was a child of destiny.

Perhaps because of this special destiny, Lawrence grew up to be a confident boy. He had a poise about him that translated into natural leadership. Not many children had his sort of self-awareness, or his willingness to stand out from the crowd. It's often a sign of a difficult home life - even of abuse. Lawrence had a perfectly happy home life, on the other hand, except for the fact that he was continually made aware of the grand future that lay before him. The prophecy was vague, but phrased so powerfully that everyone knew Lawrence would leave his mark on the world.

In 1995, he was sorted into Slytherin, and embarked on quite a career of adventure as one of the first Silver Slytherins. They were a new breed, with new heroes: the few Slytherin aurors like Andromeda Tonks; Draco Malfoy and Narcissa Malfoy; Head of House Horace Slughorn; and businessmen like Perigold Pucey. They took their lead in school from upperclassman Blaise Zabini, who proudly said that they were the truly pure in ambition.

"Ambition believes in things that work, above everything else," Zabini said, standing dramatically in front of a window. "Blood purity, studying, science, or pickles… it doesn't matter. Ambition is about success."

Lawrence agreed.

In his first year, Lawrence single-handedly helped rescue a half-giant named Turm, who had taken refuge in the Forbidden Forest to escape his human relatives, the Meroveni-Bowles. Turm had thought he would be safe within the wards of the school, in the dangerous depths of the woods, but there had been six Meroveni-Bowles children at Hogwarts, and they had been planning to murder their half-brother. Lawrence had saved Turm from an elaborate series of traps constructed in the Forest, although he'd been unable to prove to the Headmistress that the Meroveni-Bowles - siblings from a respected and wealthy Hufflepuff/Ravenclaw family - were at fault.

In his second year, Lawrence and his friend Annabeth Dankgesang solved the mystery of the Shrieking Shack. They discovered a secret passageway under the Whomping Willow that led all the way from Hogwarts to Hogsmeade, and found out that the famously "haunted" house was inhabited only by Euphorics, who spread rumors about gruesome murders and vicious ghosts to discourage visitors from intruding on their operation. Minister for Magic Scrimgeour had personally congratulated Lawrence and Annabeth for helping break up the largest elixir distribution ring in the country. Unfortunately, Lawrence had also made an enemy of Sammy Meroveni-Bowles, a boy in their own year who Lawrence suspected might have been involved in smuggling supplies.

In his third year, Lawrence and Annabeth met and befriended Moaning Myrtle, one of the ghosts of Hogwarts, and she had told them of the Deluminator, an artifact created by Albus Dumbledore and stored in the Room of Requirement. Seeking out the Room of Requirement, they found the Deluminator - and a meeting of the Meroveni-Bowles, who were planning to steal Helga Hufflepuff's Cup from Smith Manor. Lawrence and Annabeth foiled the burglary and exposed the Meroveni-Bowles, leading to the two oldest children being expelled and the rest of them closely watched. The dramatic duel with Sammy Meroveni-Bowles had ended in a stalemate, that night, but at least he would be on a short leash from then on. Unfortunately, during the night of excitement and intrigue, the Cup was still stolen… and no one knew who did it!

Was it Lawrence's special destiny that led him to such adventures - was being a child of prophecy some sort of special invisible mark, that made trouble seek out the young do-gooder? Or had that fate just made into him the sort of person who wasn't afraid to investigate the ample mysteries and intricate plots of the world's foremost school of magic? It's hard to say. But it was Lawrence's fourth year, now, and everyone was holding their breath to see what was going to happen - and whether or not Lawrence and Annabeth's friendship would blossom into something more.

At the moment, the pair were in the Slytherin common room, and Annabeth was attempting to discern the secrets of their only clue to the Caper of the Cup: a small wooden abacus the size of her palm, dropped by a shadowy figure last year after an exciting chase and brief scuffle in Smith Manor.

"I think it's enchanted," Annabeth said, touching one of the wooden beads gently. She was a slight girl, her hair in neat dreadlocks, and her lips pursed in concentration. "I think it's the Protean Charm."

"Difficult magic. Hard to do, and bloody expensive to hire," Lawrence said. He eyed the abacus warily. "Any way to trace the other things linked to it?"

"No," said Annabeth. "Or, at least, I don't know how." She set the abacus down on the table in front of them, sighing.

"I'm sure I've seen one of these before…" said Lawrence. He closed his eyes, trying to let his mind free-associate and chase down the memory. Annabeth watched him thoughtfully, letting her eyes linger on his olive skin and the sharp planes of his face. She glanced away when he opened his eyes, grinning. "I've got it! Remember when Blaise brought that Silver who works in the Tower to speak to us? Auror Pirrip? And he came to talk to us about true ambition and all that… and his friend waited for him?"

Annabeth's eyes widened. "Yes… oh, Merlin, you're right! He bumped into the other auror with him, whatsherface, when they were leaving, and she dropped something! She got so angry at him and said all those words that we went to look up in the library, right after! I think it _was_ one of these!"

"An auror device, then? Just for Tower aurors? Or something else entirely?" said Lawrence, narrowing his eyes and squinting at the small brown device. The little abacus had five rows of ten beads. They were stiff and not easy to move by mistake. The device looked unused, but enchanted objects often looked new even after a century of use.

"Easy enough to eliminate a few 'hypotheses,' " Annabeth said, smiling. Lawrence grinned. Neither of them had joined the Science Program - it limited your career options too much, since taking the extra, unorthodox classes made it harder to get your N.E.W.T.s in traditional subjects - but they'd both taken Muggle Studies and knew the basics. Annabeth would have been a natural at science.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

HYPOTHESIS 1: ALL AURORS

Annabeth got into position at the entrance to the History of Magic classroom. Professor Palma de Mallorca wasn't inside - they'd already checked - so she was able to stand just outside the door within the alcove, out of sight. She got the abacus out, holding it in her palm. Then she looked down the corridor. Lawrence was there, sitting on a windowsill, a book in his lap. He was watching a pair of aurors stationed at the end of the hall: one of the dozen that were situated in various places in Hogwarts. He looked at Annabeth, and she nodded. He fixed his eyes on the aurors, and then nodded in his own turn.

Annabeth flicked three of the beads in the top row to one side. Somewhere, all the abacuses linked by the Protean Charm to this one mimicked its movements. It was a way to signal, and even if they didn't know the appropriate messages or code, they did know that the recipients would need to look at their own copies. The little abacuses were too small and fiddly to interpret by feel.

Lawrence kept a careful watch on the aurors at the end of the hall, but they didn't change their behavior at all. They just kept quietly chatting, their hands folded casually into their sleeves. They weren't on very high alert - despite the supposed necessity of their presence, thanks to the existence of the Tower, they seldom had much to do. There were rumors that patients had escaped the Receiving Room and gone running around the school, but no one had ever actually seen such a thing first-hand, as far as Lawrence could discover. He wasn't sure he believed it. No one even really knew where the Receiving Room actually _was _in the school, for that matter (except the professors and aurors, he supposed). So far as he could actually verify, the only thing the aurors ever did was occasionally act to break up a fight or stop some bullying.

After as much as ten minutes had passed, Lawrence looked over at Annabeth and shook his head. No luck.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

HYPOTHESIS 2: TOWER AURORS

"What if they use Legilimency on me?" asked Lawrence, nervously. "They'll know I'm lying… they'll know everything." He glanced at his robes. "They might just guess from how much I'm sweating!"

"Just… try to be casual! They distribute Safety Sticks to like… a thousand countries these days! That Receiving Room must be busting, and no one's going to want to chat. Plus, Gregorius' cousin Lammie went on a lark, and he says that all that happened was that they owled Lammie's parents." Annabeth said, shrugging. "You'll be fine!"

"It knocks you out, you know… they might find the abacus while I'm unconscious," Lawrence said, shifting in his seat. "I wish we could figure out some way to do it with both of us, like last time. It'd be okay-" He cut himself off before he could finish the sentence with "if you were there." He blushed.

Annabeth was blushing now, too, although it wasn't as noticeable. She looked away and said hurriedly, with a smile, "Look just _do it_, you big kneazle!"

Lawrence stared at the Safety Stick in his hands and gulped… but anything was better than being right here, right now. It was too… too much. He snapped the Safety Stick with one strong thumb. There was a moment of wrenching force around his middle, and then darkness.

He awoke to a sudden unveiling of consciousness, as though a black curtain had been lifted from his awareness. There was no grogginess, and Lawrence was familiar enough with the process to expect the stunning (everyone knew the procedure to go to the Tower, since it was part of the first lectures on safety, and Lawrence's uncle had been rejuvenated), but it was still disorienting.

"Hello, son," said a young-looking witch, who was standing next to him. He was lying down on one of the cots. Lawrence became aware that she was holding his hand, and it twitched involuntarily. The witch just went on smiling pleasantly, and spoke again. "It's okay, you're in the Tower. We couldn't find anything wrong with your ABCs, and you don't seem to be hurt… can you tell me what's wrong?" She was extremely nice and extremely firm in a way that tolerated no dissembling. Her white robes were neat and trim, and her features were firm - snub nose, red hair, freckles, and sharp gaze.

"Oh Merlin… I'm in the Tower?!" Lawrence said. He was feeling a little panicky at the prospect of being caught, and so this performance didn't take much pretending. "But I didn't… oh, _no!_ I'm so sorry… I had a Stick in my rear pocket! Annabeth shoved me... " He trailed off, letting the lie fade on his lips. He sat up and swiveled his legs off the cot, and buried his face in his hands, releasing the healer's hand. The contact was making him uncomfortable, as though she could tell his true thoughts by touch.

"I see... " said the healer. Her voice was neutral, in the way of someone reserving judgment without wishing to give offense. This must happen all of the time, and Lawrence was pretty young… she probably saw children doing this for fun, just for the experience of it, all the time. "Well, this is very serious, you know that, right? There are six people who spent quite a while scanning and working to help you, and they could have been helping people who really needed it. Sick people, injured people, or dying people. I see you're a Hogwarts student… what's your name?"

"Lawrence Bradwian," he replied, speaking as miserably as he felt.

"We keep track of everyone who 'accidentally' comes here. I'll let the arithmancer know… and _he'll_ let the Headmistress know," the healer said. She stepped back from the screened-in little cubicle in which they were sitting. Lawrence glanced around. White tiled floors and ceiling, a plain little metal table, and a plain metal cot laid with white linen. Everything was as generic as something you might Transfigure, if you were hastily creating something new. He supposed they were in the main clinic ward, or something… details on the layout and details had been more scarce when he and Annabeth had asked around; everyone focused on the aurors and healing. _Oh, Merlin… why did we ask around like that, how stupid… if anyone does doubt this 'accident,' it'll be easy to find out how curious we've been about the Tower!_ Lawrence tried to freeze his face in its current dismay, so that he didn't visibly dissolve into horror.

"I don't want you to think that you shouldn't get a new Stick, or let this stop you from visiting us in a real emergency, Lawrence," the healer said. She glanced away from him, and waved someone over. He took the opportunity to shove his hands in his pockets.

"Serge, would you help this young man, please? He needs to speak to Tommy or someone else, and then he needs to go back to… well, class, I suppose," the healer said to someone who had just walked up, past the edge of the white screen and out of sight.

"Certainly, Beneficent," said the unknown man. He stepped up to where Lawrence could see him… and it was an auror. A hulking man, six and a half feet if he was an inch, and twenty stone if he was a pound. Serge the Auror had a thick neck and a shaved head, and when he lifted a guiding hand to Lawrence, it looked more like architecture than anatomy, in terms of scale. The auror smiled kindly.

"Have a good afternoon, Lawrence," Beneficent said to him. She was smiling again… she'd apparently decided that she believed him. Or that she should be merciful. "Be more careful, okay?" Giving a half-wave, she was gone before he could answer.

Lawrence slid forward and stood up, stepping a little awkwardly to where Serge was standing, outside the cubicle. He glanced to the left and right. There looked to be at least a hundred similar cubicles stretching to either side, with an ample corridor down the middle. Lawrence could see two dozen people or more… healers, aurors, and people in random dress who must be patients. Several patients were unconscious and limp in the air, suspended by a spell as they were briskly taken down the corridor - entering or leaving, he supposed.

"Wow," he said.

"Not as fancy as you expected, I bet," said Serge with a smile.

No better time. Lawrence flicked four or five beads on the abacus in his pocket, and watched.

In the span of the next fifteen seconds, he counted two aurors and three healers who paused at the signal, and at least _appeared_ to look at something from their pockets. Not every auror, and not every healer… only those five. What is worse, it looked to him like they were doing so furtively. They all looked with cupped hands, one of the healers ended a conversation and stepped away from the other person, and one of the aurors ducked almost out of sight into a cubicle.

"I'm not sure what I expected," said Lawrence. "But it wasn't this."

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

HYPOTHESIS 3: OH MERLIN I DON'T EVEN WHAT

"So… it's not all aurors, or even all Tower aurors… it's just some of the healers and aurors in the Tower? That's good news!" said Annabeth. They were scrunched together on a bench in the Great Hall - luncheon was the only time Lawrence could find to meet, since he was serving detentions in the evening. It was Inigo Imago's birthday, and in honor of the legendary seer, the rolls and muffins were enchanted to hang suspended above the tables, spinning in tight orbits. It was said to resemble the movement of the heavenly spheres. The wide table in front of them was also filled with meats, cheeses, and platters of pickles. There was also some sort of curry, although neither Lawrence nor Annabeth was particularly interested in it.

"How can that possibly be good news?!" said Lawrence, wheeling around to face her. He held an uneaten but enormous sandwich in his hands. "It means… well, I'm not sure what it means, but it's something _sinister! _A secret cabal within the Tower! A cabal that stole the Cup!"

"Oh, just stop and think for a moment. There are all kinds of non-sinister possible explanations, right?" Annabeth said, picking a sesame roll out of the air. She tore it apart, absently, as she spoke. "Just because one of the people who stole the cup was a part of whatever group we're talking about, here, doesn't mean the group was involved. If we found a Gryffindor robe, it wouldn't mean there was a Gryffindor conspiracy to steal the Cup… just that one Gryffindor was involved. We have narrowed down the list of suspects, a lot. It's good news."

Lawrence sullenly took a bite out of his sandwich, declining to respond until a respectable amount of time had passed. After a while, though, he turned to Annabeth and said something witty and cutting, even though he said it around a mouthful of food that made it completely unintelligible.

"Gross," Annabeth said, making a face. "Slow down, or you'll choke."

Lawrence abandoned the effort, and concentrated on chewing. Annabeth went on, saying, "Okay, so we should probably go tell the Headmistress, immediately. There's no reason to wait. She and the Tower and all those important people can figure this out."

"No," said Lawrence, urgently. "That won't work. Listen, who was most likely to notice that Sammy and his siblings were up to no good? What sort of person?"

"A student, of course," said Annabeth. "Or a professor."

"And which students, specifically?" said Lawrence, raising his eyebrows.

"Us, I suppose. I mean, we've been tangling with them for years. There was Turm and the Shrieking Shack and Myrtle and… yes, if anyone was going to get suspicious, it was going to be us," Annabeth said, guardedly.

"And what would we be expected to do, if we found a clue?" said Lawrence.

"...report it to the Headmistress? But wait, you can't possibly think that this is a trap? If this conspiracy involves the Headmistress, then I think we've already lost. And anyway, how could you even think that!? You know what she's like! And how would that trap even work… you're saying that… I don't even know what you're saying!" Annabeth sounded scandalized and shocked and scornful, all in equal measure.

"Fair enough, okay," said Lawrence. He switched tactics. "But maybe she's just not powerful enough. We need to go right to the top. There's only one person who can sort this out… one person who can figure out the conspiracy and get back the Cup."

"First of all, you don't know that there's a conspiracy. The abacus might not be related. Second of all, there's no way we could get a private message to Minister N'Goma… there are probably eight people assigned just to read her owls. Third of all-"

"No, no," said Lawrence. "I mean the _Tower_. Let's go give the abacus to Dean Potter! He'll help us get back the Cup!"

Annabeth paused, then frowned, suspiciously. "You just want an excuse to talk to him and bring us to his attention." She thought for a moment, then brightened. "That's an excellent idea. He's almost as important as the Minister for Magic, anyway… and _he's_ not accountable to _anyone_. A good person to know, and this is a good excuse to talk to him."

It was just like Professor Slughorn always said: the more people you know, the more people who can help you.

"But why not just - I don't know, cut off your finger, or something? I'm pretty sure that a lot of people who go to the Tower get to speak to Dean Potter. Or we could just talk to an auror and tell them what's up."

"Well, I suppose," said Lawrence. "But I think that they usually don't let you talk to him very much… and he must hear this kind of stuff all day. We need to _stand out_. And also… this might be a good opportunity for some payback on the Meroveni-Bowles. Opportunities like this, for a clever plot, don't come along every day."

"All right," Lawrence said. "So how are we going to sneak into the Tower, the most heavily-guarded place in Britain?" He took another bite out of his sandwich.

"I have an idea, I think," Annabeth said. "An idea for a plan." She picked up a piece of torn roll from her plate and rolled it into a ball between her fingers. "We want to solve a mystery and report a possible conspiracy, right? Recover a relic of the Founders of Hogwarts and return it to the rest of Hepzibah Smith's collection, and punish those responsible? And we also want to _get_ Sammy and his siblings? And, of course, become famous and powerful?"

Lawrence nodded, chewing.

"Well, how can we do all of these things with one simple plan?" Annabeth squished the bread flat between two fingers. "Let me give you a hint: remember that big cabinet we saw in the Room of Requirement?"

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_Note: How would you do it?_


	19. Taking Flight

_1\. Every State shall make provisions for expeditious transport to the John Snow Center for Medicine (alias The Tower) for any injured or ailing persons (hereafter Users) of the following types:_

_Full-blooded witch or wizard._

_Half-blooded witch or wizard._

_Muggleborn witch or wizard._

_Such Beings as qualify under the text of Article 1, Section 2. (Amended)_

_Squibs or other non-magical relatives, as defined in the text of Article 1, Section 4. (Amended)_

_2\. This transport shall be provided under the following terms:_

_Transport shall be free of charge for all Users._

_Should it be necessary, States may impose a monetary penalty or criminal charges to those Users who are deemed to be abusing the service._

_Such penalty shall, nonetheless, not be incurred on any User's first trip to the John Snow Center for Medicine._

_Transport shall be expeditious, as defined in the text of Article 1, Section 7._

_Transport shall be safe, taking place only under such circumstances or employing such means as will assure the well-being, both physical and mental, of Users, as specified by the parameters of Appendix F. (Amended)_

_3\. Any attempts to sabotage, disrupt, delay, repurpose, alter, or otherwise interfere with the operations of the aforementioned transport, regardless of whether or not said sabotage, disruption, delay, repurposing, alteration, or interference is within the bounds of the signatory State or any other State, including both signatories and non-signatories, shall incur a penalty commensurate with the number of preceding penalties already incurred, according to the chart of Appendix B, and as determined by an impartial vote of representatives of all signatory States. (Amended)_

From Article 3 of the Treaty for Health and Life.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_April 16th, 1999_

_Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry_

Hogwarts is a dangerous place, even at the best of times. Even aside from the menagerie of dangerous creatures that live in and around its grounds. The castle itself is a vast labyrinth of ever-changing corridors, dimly-lit dungeons, and variable staircases. Wizards and witches are supernaturally hardy in many ways, but Madame Pomfrey, the matron, always had her hands full - even without classroom mishaps.

It was tragic, then, but hardly suspicious when Sammy Meroveni-Bowles slipped on the stairs on his way down from Divination and Probability, felt the railing give way in his hand, and fell down the gaping center of the tower's spiral staircase. Several children were behind him on the stairs, and could see the accident. The witnesses should probably count themselves as fortunate, since if they'd left class first, they might have been the ones to slip on the small puddle of castor oil on the staircase. Sammy was always the first to rush down to luncheon, though, so that was unlikely.

Sammy fell like a stone, followed by a piece of railing, his Divinations and Probability textbooks, and the bracket that had torn free. He bounced off of the staircase on the opposite side of the tower after a moment, his skull smashing into the stone and rebounding him back the other direction. By the time he hit the floor of the tower, he was unrecognizable - a tangle of battered bones, meat, and robes.

Lawrence Bradwian was the first to reach the boy. He'd been in the lavatory, returning to class, and so he was kneeling next to Sammy and gingerly turning the boy over by the time their other classmates arrived. Sammy and Lawrence were known to be dire enemies, and so many thought it was a mark of great kindness that Lawrence shouted for a Safety Stick. Professor Placela bustled halfway down the stairs with one, his black-and-gold robes gathered up in his fists, before he realized that it would be faster to simply drop it. Lawrence caught it awkwardly with the tips of his fingers.

"How do I do this, without going along?" he asked, looking around. He seemed quite upset.

His friend Annabeth huffed in frustration, and grabbed his hand. "Just _go!_" she said, and yanked his hand and the Stick down into Sammy's bloody chest. It snapped, and with a slippery pop, all three of the children disappeared.

The rest of the class looked at each other, uncertain, as Professor Placela reached the bottom of the stairs. He was puffing and red-faced, but he still had wind enough to insist they have an impromptu lesson on the availability heuristic. Just becauseevents like these sprang quickly to mind when one thought of stairs, did not make stairs any more dangerous than before, since so many people used them without incident on a daily basis. Everyone groaned and complained that they weren't planning on reconsidering the use of stairs, but the excitement and mild shock of the accident had made them tractable. The students found seats on the stairs, scrunching together and grimacing, as their teacher discussed base rates.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

At any given time, more than half of the aurors stationed at the Tower were positioned in the Receiving Room. At night and in the wee hours, the flow of patients transported by individual Safety Sticks or one of the two dozen fixed Safety Poles slowed significantly, as trauma cases were replaced by scheduled rejuvenations, long-term illness treatments, and the highly complex changes in magical nature that the Tower made possible (such as restoring vampires and lycanthropes). During those hours, there might be as few as twenty aurors in the Receiving Room.

Weekday afternoons, on the other hand, were often quite busy, and a full fifty aurors were bustling around the reception area. The vast majority were native British aurors, as usual, although an increasing number of foreign aurors were being posted at the Tower, as well. Exceptional Transfiguration skills were considered the most important asset in any potential Tower auror, as well as warding, scanning, and a general aptitude for learning new magics. Foreign aurors - and healers, too - were ready, willing, and able to assist in the implementation of the Treaty for Health and Life, and so they were made welcome… after passing an assessment by the Director of the DMLE, Cedric Diggory, and by the head of Tower security, Alastor Moody. It was only fair to permit their countries to send them, but they still had to meet the Tower's high standards.

Political considerations made their inclusion a smart move, anyway. As new countries joined, and their citizens saw the physical disabilities of their neighbors vanish and magical hospitals empty, replaced by a stream of fresh-faced, healthy, and delighted young witches and wizards, it was important to make sure that each state felt fully invested in the process, and that the entire clinic operation be as transparent as possible in order to allay suspicion.

Fairness and politics aside, the foreigners were necessary. There were just too many sick, wounded, and elderly for the British aurors to handle - even with the aggressive recruiting that had doubled their ranks. Every hour of every day, aurors were needed for the reception squad, the scanning squad, the chizpurfle squad, the traffic squad, and the detector squad - plus those additional aurors who simply remained vigilant and directed traffic. One experienced and level-headed auror - in short supply, these days - was also necessary to be the cryptically-named "Mayor of Terminus," usually just called the "Terminus," for any given shift. The Terminus was in command of the Receiving Room, and the post had become highly sought-after in recent years.

This particular Friday afternoon, forty-two aurors were on duty in the Receiving Room. The cavernous hall, which had seemed silly in its enormous scale when the Tower opened, was bustling with people working efficiently. Every ten or twenty seconds, a new arrival would spin into place in an empty spot, flickering with red as he or she was rendered unconscious, and an auror trained in triage would swoop in, visually inspect them, cast a quick scan, and check their ABCs (airway, breathing, circulation). If there was no pressing emergency - and there usually wasn't - then the patient would be passed off to a pair of colleagues, who would start the autonomous patient record and begin security scans. The patient record, a specialized Quotes Quill and pre-printed parchment form, followed the patient and filled in information obediently after the scans as bottled chizpurfles were used to ferret out any magical items or spells that the scanners had missed. Wands and any dangerous contraband were confiscated and bagged and tagged. Then the patient was floated on into the Tower proper, where the real work could begin (and sometimes continue, holding stable long into the night, waiting for Harry to come inspect the healing).

They'd already caught Moody once, today, but everyone was still doing their best work, highly conscious of the fact that he would sometimes make more than one attempt to breach security. Last year, he'd tried thirty-two separate times in a single twenty-four-hour period, and his last attempt had taken the form of conjoined twins, one of whom was apparently in cardiac arrest, trying to smuggle in a wand.

He wasn't the only security concern, either. There were frequent intoxicated people "running safety," occasional attempts at organized protests, and even the rare assassin or two.

Truly novel attacks were rare. That may be why this one was so successful at disrupting the Receiving Room.

Three children spun into existence, two crouching over a third bloody body for a moment, before they all fell limp. Half a heartbeat later, a large burlap sack and a big mahogany cabinet both erupted from the pocket of the injured child, sprouting sideways as though they were the fruit of some monstrous plant in the injured child's garments. And half a heartbeat after that, the doxies trapped inside of the bag burst free.

Harry Madagascar was Terminus this afternoon, and he was highly competent. His wand already was in his hand before the sack had finished its emergence, and his eyes flickered around the room to pick out additional threats and to make sure everyone was on task. They were: two aurors physically moved to block the golden entrance into the Tower proper, calling out a warning to the guards within, who rolled the barrier into place; the reception squad and scanning squad focused on shielding and stabilizing their patients; the chizpurfle squad handled incoming patients in the same way; and everyone else concentrated on the threat. It appeared to be an isolated attack, rather than a distraction - no one was trying to make a break for it, and the various wards and jinxes on the Room all seemed to be functional. The cabinet that had also sprung from the child's clothes seemed to be inert, thank Merlin.

However minor the threat, two dozen doxies had escaped from the bag in the few seconds before an auror hit it with an _Immobilus_, containing the rest of them. And unfortunately for the annoyed aurors, the escapees scattered throughout the room. Biting Faeries, as they were also known, were nasty little pests… covered in coarse "hairs" of black chitin, they had shiny brown beetle-wings and a hard little nugget for a head. They were small and didn't do much damage when they bit, but they were venomous. Each needle-like tooth was covered in an oily venom; doxies had two rows of them at any time, shedding one row and growing another each month. Not particularly fearsome creatures, although their venom could cause serious, persistent swelling if left untreated. Doxycide was the usual treatment, since the blasted critters were so hard to hit.

Madagascar kept a careful watch as the situation was dealt with by the professionals in the Receiving Room. No additional instructions seemed to be necessary, as the aurors on task were ably freezing or killing each doxy. They were quick and agile beasts, and they managed to bite a few people as they buzzed around the room, whipping and weaving to avoid attacks, but there was never any real threat. _Maybe just a prank_, Madagascar thought. Was that lazy thinking? How could someone benefit from this? As a diversion, while an assassination attempt was underway? Well, that wasn't his look-out: he was Terminus, and so he just needed to wrap this up as soon as possible. The bloody little things were zipping around and trying to find places to hide for a moment, so they could bite.

Perhaps seven or eight minutes later, the last elusive doxy was obliterated with a short-range blast of fire by an angry auror named Pilar. She'd been keeping a badly-injured older woman stable during the fight, but had seen an opportunity to end the conflict before it dragged on any further. She'd swept up her wand, cast her curse, and returned her wand to her patient in the span of a moment… but it was still a bad risk. Outside of the Tower, and without whatever wandless magic Harry Potter used to complete the Higher Transfiguration spells within its walls, Transfiguration sickness could have caused serious problems even in the span of that moment. Madagascar would have to scold her.

_No apparent remaining threats_, he thought, glancing around the room again. _But that kid is going to pay for this prank. Unless - for whatever insane reason - he had some valid excuse._

"Harry!" called out Geraldine Stein, an auror normally on chizpurfle duty whom he'd once taken out for a quiet drink. She was standing next to the burlap sack, looking inside at the frozen pests that hadn't escaped. "Mr. Madagascar, sir!" she corrected herself immediately. He didn't believe anyone would actually think she was being too familiar, but Stein was a careful woman. "The rest of the doxies are dying!"

_Poison, gaseous attack, trap -_ his mind span through some possibilities, and he opened his mouth. Then it snapped shut as he realized. "Transfiguration sickness," he called to her. "That's how they got here and were triggered… they were Transfigured into something small, and the transfiguration was dispelled when the caster was stunned. That means it was someone here. Better put up the first precaution, though, just in case. Bubblehead the three kids. And keep a close eye on them… one of them did this stupid prank." He paused, eyeing the cabinet. "And seal that piece of furniture, too."

Stein followed through on his commands, putting the Bubblehead Charm on the three unconscious teenagers and putting up the air ward of the first precaution to make sure that anything dangerous didn't spread any further. Then she touched her wand to the large wooden cabinet, dark wood with scrollwork along the top, that had also made the trip, and cast a full-strength _Colloportus_. Whatever strange attack the cabinet was intended to convey, it was now locked-up.

Madagascar glanced around the Receiving Room, looking for any other threats. He didn't see any. Just a swift of aurors all huddled or standing, attending to their patients. They needed to get everything clear and moving again, or the incoming injured were going to start backing up in such great of numbers that those present wouldn't be able to care for them.

"All clear, I think," said Gregor Nimue, who was standing by the door, looking bored. His arms were crossed, and his wand dangled casually from loose fingers.

"Give the knock, then," said Madagascar. His voice was a bit short, since he didn't particularly like Nimue. The man regarded himself as too good for his current circumstances, since he was competent and experienced, but had been stuck at the bottom of the duty roster for years. _Never knew that quadruple pay was going to cost so much, down the line, did you?, _thought Madagascar. _Serves you right._

Nimue shrugged, and went to the heavy silver plate that had been rolled into place across the Tower entrance by the door guards just inside. He knocked three times, then five times. It sounded like someone was thumping on the bottom of some immense cauldron. After a response from within, Nimue knocked three more times.

The door didn't open, and Nimue looked even more annoyed as he realized something.

"What is it, Gregor?" Madagascar asked, frowning.

The older auror scowled. "This is the same alert pattern as earlier this month, when those protesters overwhelmed the guard in Bloemfontein and tried to just send as many Muggles through as possible, to swamp us with bodies. Diggory didn't change it, and now I bet they're realizing that."

"Well, they'll need to fix that protocol, I suppose," said Madagascar, trying not to lay blame anywhere - not in such a public way, that is. _He_ certainly didn't want _his _career to dead-end, just because he didn't have enough sense to shut up. He was going to add something else, but at that moment a silvery bat flapped its way out of some unknowable place and into sight right in front of his face. Its leathery, translucent wings shed a glittering mist as it flew in place, and spoke in the voice of Director Diggory: "What is going on?"

Madagascar looked around the room, hesitating, then said resolutely, "We gave the correct knock, Mr. Diggory, I'm sure of it. The situation is under control."

The bat flapped out of existence, only to return a moment later, saying, "Monkey monkey monkey."

He sighed and replied, "I like bananas, dress me like a doll." The call-and-response phrases were supposedly randomly generated by Mad-Eye Moody using funny little black-and-white cubes and a dictionary, but all the aurors were certain that he kept rolling the cubes until he got a sufficiently embarrassing result.

"Sir… look at this," said Auror Stein. She was kneeling down next to the injured boy in the trio of teenagers who had started this mess, a bottle of chizpurfles in one hand. She held up a signal abacus in the other, just like the ones possessed by senior aurors. "Someone must have forgotten to report a loss, sir."

"And _that_," said Nimue, from the other side of the room, "is a Vanishing Cabinet. That boy with the doxies and abacus seems to have had quite a plan." He clucked his tongue. "And it almost worked," he added, even though the scheme plainly had not even come _close _to working.

"There's a note here, too, sir," said Stein. She'd set down the abacus, and had a tightly-folded piece of parchment. She glanced up at Madagascar, raising her eyebrows significantly. "It's in code."

"Put the three kids under arrest," said Madagascar, sighing. Four aurors surrounded them. He rubbed his eyes with his off hand. At least it didn't seem like it was another Moody attack. Once in a day was enough. Although it _had_ been fun to give Pip credit, since no one saw Madagascar cast the stunner. Madagascar grinned, remembering, as the door guards rolled back the silver plate blocking the Tower. The enchanted barrier scraped the stone as it rolled, as if it was reluctant to be moved.

J.C. Kraeme, one of the guards, came through. She had her bubbler in hand, and she reported into it with a wry tone, "There are prisoners! And they're _students_!" She lowered the bubbler, looking at the big dresser, the teenagers sealed off with Transfiguration precautions, the burlap sack full of dead doxies, and the twenty-four deceased ones littering the Receiving Room.. "What in Merlin's name is going on here, Mr. Madagascar?"

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_NOTE: This is the complete contents of the parchment that Stein found in Sammy's pocket:_

_33tuccnimechlxbguhvpesyvbsuxihryccmcptwkxcfmbpemvjvhahxdwvqmbrfwfkkiiwbivplvogiyeelwalvjmvaewdiibeexbvrtotewrkecbxrfuukepjgjsfjkaxdmcztbafmnqfstfkbtnxkmssurna_


	20. Contra

_Glewlwyd Gavaelvawr bringt the wægnwright before Merlin, and the man prostravit._

"_Wo," said the wægnwright. "Þere is a greet vates in my village, and he hath foretold that my wyf will become the wyf of Thegn Edmund the Black. How meahte this be prevented? How meahte this be stoppjed?"_

_Merlin was greatly wroth, and seiden, "Stopje þy spittle! Know you not that alle prophetie is true, ac it be seied to be unsure? Time hath but a single þraw for alle its span. Et quod dicitur erit quod do not differ by even so much as a grain of sand. Mannfully þou must endure þy fate, and do not clamour, lest þee hasten it."_

Harry Lowe, _The Transmygracioun_, passus decimus

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_Students_?

Harry Potter-Evans-Verres, Percy Weasley, Haddad, Podrut, and Mafalda Hopkirk relaxed. Amelia Bones, Cedric Diggory, Hedley Kwannon, Simon Smith, and Alastor Moody did not.

Harry sighed. "If it's all secure, and it was just students trying to Gryffindor their way into someplace secure, then let's finish up here. We were talking about the Seyhan thing."

Diggory handed his bubbler to Auror Kwannon, gesturing with his other hand at the door. "Keep tabs on things, and let me know if they need help sorting through the backlog in Receiving. Oh, and have someone notify the Headmistress, since it's students. This is happening too often." She nodded and spent a few moments dispelling the wards on the door until she was able to quietly exit, small mirror in hand.

Everyone else sat down around the meeting table again, gathering up parchments where they'd been scattered. Harry tapped his finger thoughtfully, and said, "All right… so Moody will take the lead in planning out how to handle this - the logistics of the fake body. This could badly hurt us if it gets out, increasing the paranoia and driving even more people into the Independents, so not a word about this outside of this room."

He turned to regard Simon Smith. "That means with Hermione, too. I'll discuss it with her the next time I see her - tonight, I think - and we'll work out how to handle this with the Returned." He wasn't actually worried about any leaks from them; the loyalty and security of the Returned was so absolute in its nature that it approached the surety of magical vows. It wasn't quite a cult, but something about the nature of their suffering and redemption instilled in them an otherworldly certainty in Hermione's judgment and goodness. "And I'll also work out with her how to put some distance between you guys and the Tower."

Smith nodded. "She will also want to talk with Madame Bones," he said. "Charlevoix has received word from Ministre Isidore about a possible pen for Dementors in Siberia. We understand that there could be political consequences when we crush it, and we want to minimize that."

"We might be able to use that, actually," said Madame Bones, wrinkling her smooth brow thoughtfully. She lifted a hand to curtail Smith before he could object, adding, "Although I know you won't delay in acting by even one minute, of course. Nor should you."

She turned to Harry. "Things are coming to a turning point, I think, Harry. Draco and Narcissa are pushing their treaty with as much energy as they can muster, warning that every state must choose between us and them. Well, not 'them' in as many words - they're saying it's the only way to prevent invasion. Your 'bend like the willow' strategy may be reaching the end of its usefulness… I say we start pushing back a little more. We can't let the Malfoys define us in the eyes of world powers. And if Hermione is going to back off on her tours and advocacy, then it's especially important that we speak for ourselves."

"She's right, Potter," said Moody, scratching the scalp of today's body. "The time for the soft sell is over, especially if you can't have the Goddess out there selling us to the world. You've been telling us you have some 'breakthroughs' that will end Malfoy's little rebellion for years, and in the meantime the blonde little nit has become a hundredfold more threatening to your goals."

"Let's cut off distribution of Malfoy's newsletter, at least," chimed in Diggory. "He uses our Vanishing Rooms to trans-ship to the Americas, Eastern Europe, Africa, and the Ten Thousand. If we just cut off those lines, then it's going to be bloody hard for him to get his nonsense out there. He'll be back to the old ways. Even you've called this a war… let's really get our army moving!"

"I wouldn't rely too much on Vanishing Rooms staying our own exclusive property," said Harry. "Plenty of people have all kinds of opportunity to examine the Rooms in other states, and it wasn't that much of a leap from Vanishing Cabinets. A few tweaks to the _Passus_ and they've got it - assuming they haven't stolen the incantations already."

Moody harrumphed his agreement. "At least twelve questionable researchers on staff in Extension Establishment and Pairing Partnership alone." He pointed a crooked finger at Mafalda Hopkirk. "The Unspeakables leak like a sieve." She scowled, cheeks flushing, but Moody was already turning back to Harry. "And you have that Umbridge toad in and out of here like she owns the place! I don't know what you're doing with all that Muggle rubbish in Pairing Partnership, churning out reams of squiggly lines while casting first-year cantrips, but if it's important enough for you to be researching yourself, then Umbridge shouldn't be allowed anywhere near it. She shouldn't even know it _exists_!"

"You don't know her value," said Harry. "I do. She and the other people you suspect - _suspect_, since you don't have a shred of evidence or you'd already have told me - are all essential. The risk to operational security is outweighed by our need for speed… they have to work all the harder to make themselves useful to me, after all. In a month, we'll be able to put the sliceboxes to use properly, and that's only because of the help of some of your 'questionable researchers.' " He turned back to Diggory. "And you're not cutting off freedom of the press, either. Everyone gets to _say_ whatever they want."

"That doesn't stop us from replying, at least," said Diggory. A frown appeared on his ridiculously handsome face.

He cut off the train of thought before it could proceed much further. "Fair point. We have regular announcements and releases in _The Prophet_, but it might shift the Overton window more if we also had our own newsletter. Percy, maybe you could come up with a few names on who might head that up?"

Weasley nodded, making notes on the parchment in front of him. "I have a few people in mind."

"Thank Merlin for small favors," groused Bones. "I'd like one of my people on that, too."

"Malfoy's fired off two bombs just last month, and this one's talking about 'freedom of the press,' " muttered Moody, disgruntled with where they'd left the topic. "Going to need metal detectors on the Tower entrance, soon. Not a bad thought, actually… we can do that, now, with that Loony Leaf..." He trailed off, thinking.

Harry glanced at the agenda in front of him. "Moving on, the Westphalians are asking for us to publicly cut all financial ties with Cyprus - I'm guessing that would be to impress Cappadocia with their clout, for whatever reason - and for 'equality in trade.' "

"In other words, we drop all tariffs and pressure others to do so, as well," said Bones. "Old hat from them. They've been demanding it for a century."

"Yes, and it would be a huge victory if Hig got us to agree to that… it would put the Treaty over the top with them, and increase his personal prestige. If we're cultivating him, that would make sense," mused Weasley. "A big hit to your own popularity here at home, but it would be in sectors where we can afford the loss."

"He also wants us to send them some arithmancers to train them in progressive taxation," said Harry, smiling. "The secret to our wealth. But if we agree to that… well, Hig has laid that out as non-negotiable before they'll recommend the Treaty."

"Once they recommend it, it's as good as passed in the United States and Canada," commented Haddad. The Chief Goldsmith pulled an ornate snuffbox from a small pocket in his jacket, loading the crook of his index finger with a pinch. "Probably a few other countries in the Americas, as well."

"Yes, it's common knowledge they own the north, sure enough," said Bones, thoughtfully. "But Dumbledore thought - and I agree with him - that they could swing almost all of the Americas around like a toy kneazle. He was uncomfortable with that aspect of American affairs, even as he needed to work with their people in the Confederation to keep things in check."

"Yes, I'm inclined to agree. I think we should make the deal, if we can. We'll get on the wing to other major signatories, and make sure we have a majority in favor, though," Harry said. "If we jump on this, it might forestall them using the Independent situation even more to their advantage. I honestly still think they could go either way. We need to lock the Council down… their intelligence operation is invaluable. Particularly given our current situation. We can worry about dismantling it after we understand what we're up against."

"Even with the mysterious 'Three' in play," asked Moody, "they'd still consider staying neutral?"

"There are some people in the Council who like the idea of three world coalitions - Independents, Health and Life, and Westphalia. Councilor Strongbound has been trying to put together enough votes to get Westphalia to reject any motion to endorse us, playing it as another move by imperialist Britain to take control. He's echoing a lot of Malfoy talk." Harry said. "Hig leads the majority there, but he doesn't own the Council of Westphalia as thoroughly as they own the politics of the States. He's with us, I think, but he's not everyone."

One of the doors opened, and Kraeme entered the room, Pip at her side. He had a slip of parchment in hand. "Sir? We thought you should see this. One of the intruders today had it, but it doesn't appear to be any language we recognize."

"A code, or just another part of the prank meant to look like a code," added Kraeme. "They had a sackful of transfigured doxies and a transfigured Vanishing Cabinet, too. And one of these," she said, holding up a small wooden abacus.

"Someone's in _trouble_," said Harry, whistling and raising his eyebrows. "Okay, they got my attention. Bring them in here, and ask the Headmistress to join us if she's free." He glanced around. "I think we've covered nearly everything - everything high-security, anyway. Percy will have some owls out to everyone about a few more things, but it's nothing we can't solve later or at a distance. Bones, you'll be in Norden for a week from tomorrow, yes?" She nodded as she got to her feet, shuffling parchments into a pile. "I'll owl you about some things, then."

Everyone departed their separate ways, exchanging cordial pleasantries as they did so. Most headed to the entrance to the Tower, so they could get a portkey out of Hogwarts, while Podrut went back to Material Methods. Moody stayed behind long enough to kill a fly he'd noticed in the room with a well-placed curse, then went to check out the situation in the Receiving Room.

While Kraeme and Pip went to go bring in the students that had been taken prisoner - placed under arrest? what was the proper terminology? - Harry examined the slip of parchment.

_33tuccnimechlxbguhvpesyvbsuxihryccmcptwkxcfmbpemvjvhahxdwvqmbrfwfkkiiwbivplvogiyeelwalvjmvaewdiibeexbvrtotewrkecbxrfuukepjgjsfjkaxdmcztbafmnqfstfkbtnxkmssurna_

Could he take the time to break this? It would be fun, but he hadn't done cryptography for years… not since he and Draco had come up with the codes for the Bayesian Conspiracy, really. He smiled at the thought. The smile faltered as he glanced at his watch. Not much time left before he needed to get to the clinic and finish off the Transfigurations that were in progress or in holding. The patients might mostly be in magical sleep, unconscious of the passage of time, but the healers on duty were not so lucky. Clinic time was starting to dominate his daily schedule… they were going to have to change protocol, and figure out some way for him to multitask. The Stone required no concentration or effort from him, after all.

Giving the Stone to someone else - anyone other than Hermione - was an impossibility, of course.

Well, he had a few minutes, anyway. He took a mechanical pencil from his pocket, turned his agenda over to use as scrap paper, and got to work.

The opening digits were clearly significant in some way. Was it a Caesar cypher, rotating through the alphabet 33 letters (i.e. 7 letters) one way or another? That would be easy almost beyond belief, but this was Magical Britain, and maths hadn't yet penetrated very deep. Easy enough to check.

_abjjuptlj… _no, that wasn't it, clearly. The other way didn't yield up anything intelligible, either.

He counted the letter frequency. Every letter in the alphabet appeared at least once in the 156-letter message, which reduced the likelihood that it was a rotation cypher or a simple substitution. If there were spacing between letters, he could have picked out the single-letter words to help rule out some possibilities, but this was just an unbroken string - no punctuation, either.

He mapped ETAOIN onto the message's six most common letters, but again there was no discernable pattern.

Harry paused for a moment. What were some other novice codes? Or should he take a different tact and assume this was someone who knew what they were doing? He'd once thought about making a magical Enigma machine, using custom-enchanted quills - the theory behind giving quills specific instructions for behavior predicated on outside input was voluminous, and it had intrigued him with the possibilities of magical computing, once. Harry strained to remember… had he ever discussed it with Draco?

No, this was found on students. Even if someone skilled at cryptography had designed this code, it was probably still simple enough for a student to decipher with materials at hand. A one-time pad was a good possibility, given the digits at the start of the code. In that case, the code was unbreakable without the thirty-third sheet from the necessary pad. He'd assume that wasn't the case for now, though. More fun this way.

A book cipher? The Bible would normally be the obvious choice - Genesis 3:3 would be the place to start - but that was unlikely in a magical society, where religion had limited currency.

Harry wasn't as well-equipped in the magical culture department as most other wizards, but a few alternatives sprang to mind: _The Tales of Beedle the Bard, _Goshawk's _Book of Spells,_ Lowe's _The Muggle Conspiracy_, or something by Bagshot… there were a variety of books that had been bestsellers for so long they'd become ubiquitous. In that case, 33 might be the page number or the paragraph used for the encoding.

The door opened, and Harry looked up to see the pair of aurors back, three children floating along behind them. A healer came just behind, wand resting firmly on the chest of one of the airborne students. Harry felt a little unhappy with himself, even though he knew that was silly. He'd eliminated several possibilities, and it was clear the cryptogram was sufficiently sophisticated that he shouldn't have expected to break it with pencil and paper in only a few minutes. Still, he'd been expecting some… flash of insight. He sighed and put down the pencil, pulling on his fingerless gloves.

Kwannon was also dragging the burlap sack filled with dead doxies, which she left on the floor. She put an abacus and three wands on the table. "Left the Cabinet back in the Receiving Room… Chief Moody insisted," she said.

Harry nodded, approaching the third child. He rested a hand on the boy's leg, examining him. "He was injured?" he asked the healer.

"Yes," replied the man, a tall and slender fellow with a beaky nose. "Tears along the ligamentum teres hepatis and mesentery, cardiac contusions, pulmonary contusions, multiple fractures, and e-ax bleed. Fixed the brain, then got him trip-R, and everything bagged again. Trauma was all severe but typical. Subsumed some nodules on the thyroid, too, so he'll leave here with some salt. Kid's been stepped down for about... five minutes."

Harry nodded. Serious injuries from blunt trauma, including a ruptured liver, damaged intestine, bruising of the heart, and bleeding in the brain… the boy was lucky that the Tower and Safety Sticks existed. He probably wouldn't have died under Madame Pomfrey's care, but he'd probably have suffered brain damage.

He studied the boy's face, and then the faces of the two other students, but didn't recognize them. Hm.

"Auror Kwannon, were all four things - abacus, doxies, Vanishing Cabinet, and the note - found on the same student?"

The auror nodded. "Yes. The injured one, here. The other two seem to have just been the ones to break the Stick and bring him to the Receiving Room." She paused, lowering her head in thought until her shoulder-length black hair swung forward to cover her face, and then looked up again, asking, "How could this work, as an attack? The doxies are clever - you're stunned, and they revert to their native Form and go on the attack for a few minutes, until they drop dead - but if you've figured out that much, you should also have figured out that the Vanishing Cabinet would also revert, and that you wouldn't be able to smuggle it into the Tower."

Harry couldn't repress a slight smile. He smelled a clever plot from a novice plotter.

He lifted his hand from the injured boy. "You can go, Galen. Thank you."

The healer lifted his wand from the boy and put it in his sleeve. "Certainly." He paused. "I know this one, by the way. The patient. He came in with his brother, once. He's Sammy Meroveni-Bowles."

_Oh._

Harry raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Scarlett Meroveni-Bowles is this boy's mother?"

"Yes," said the healer, as he headed out the door. "The one always ranting about the Treaty in letters to _The Prophet_."

"She is famous for being a bit of a crackpot about that, isn't she? Hm. Wait, Galen… would you mind asking someone on the door to get me whichever Arithmancy books available in the library on cryptography?" Harry paused. "There should be at least… two, if I remember correctly. Although there might have been new acquisitions."

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

As it happened, the books were unnecessary. By the time Pip appeared at the door with four books in hand, fifteen minutes later, the puzzle was solved.

Harry was able to draw the square from memory: the _tabula recta_, one of the most basic and famous ways to use a running-key cipher. It was almost five hundred years old, and fairly famous among cryptographers: a table that was 26 letters tall and 26 letters long, with each row and column beginning one letter further in the alphabet (the first row started A, B, C … , the second column was B, C, D …, etc). It was a simple and elementary way to use a specific key to encode your text.

Image Not Available: visit **goo dot gl/Q8hwLb** for an example of a tabula recta

There was no 33rd part to the Treaty for Health and Life, and so Harry guessed that the third part of the third section - that is, 3.3 - was the indicated key. It took less than a minute to verify with the first six letters of the cryptograph, moving letter by letter through the key. He looked in the _tabula recta_ for the A row, then located the cyphertext letter T in that row. That T was in column T, and so the first decoded letter was T. Next he found the coded U in row N, resulting in an H.

_tuccnimechlxbguhvpesyvbsuxihryccmcptwkxcfmbpemvjvhahxdwvqmbrfwfkkiiwbivplvogiyeelwalvjmvaewdiibeexbvrtotewrkecbxrfuukepjgjsfjkaxdmcztbafmnqfstfkbtnxkmssurna_

_Anyattemptstosabotagedisruptdelayrepurposealterorotherwiseinterferewiththeoperationsoftheaforementionedtransportregardlessofwhetherornotsaidsabotagedisruptiondelayr_

It only took three letters to know he was correct, as the message began:

_T H E_

"Sir? Galen said you asked for these?" asked Pip. He frowned as he entered the room. "Lawrence Bradwian and Annabeth Dankgesang… I hope they're not in trouble, sir?"

"Well..." answered Harry, moving his finger up and down the table of letters.

_ H_

"...I think they're in a great deal of trouble, indeed."


	21. Bonus: Shichinin

_April 15th, 1999_

_Luuq, Somalia_

"Drop your guns!" shouted Neville, leaping through the window.

"Guns are stupid!" shouted Fred, leaping in next to him.

"Your mother is a hamster and something something elderberries!" shouted George, leaping in at Neville's other side.

"That's not even close to being right, George! _Extinctus!_" said Neville, as he swept his wand across to one of the eight soldiers.

The soldiers were tough: hardened Ogaden warriors who had been fighting for years. It would be hard to say what their cause really was: independence for their clans; the unity of the Ogaden regions in Somalia and Ethiopia; or personal power. But whatever the cause, they had spent most of their recent time intimidating, beating, or shooting the residents of local villages. They were hard men, and used to violence. And so while they were surprised when white men in black dresses jumped through the window and began waving sticks, there was an easy solution at hand. They raised their rifles.

_Click. Click. Click_. _Click. Click. Click_. _Click. Click._

The Extinguishing Charm suppressed small fires. That included small chemical fires. That included the ignition of the primer in the 5.56×45mm NATO cartridges in the soldier's guns.

The two worlds were separated, but not by that much. The Záh Kardja used flamethrowers during Grindelwald's War, and many wizards were constantly scrutinizing the Muggle world - if only so that they could disguise themselves better (or make ironic devices, like a lighter that turns off lights). Unfortunately for Smith and Wesson, guns happened to be unusually easy to disable with simple and quick magics.

"References are only funny-" said George.

"-if everyone is in on the joke," completed Fred. The twins snapped their fingers at the front and rear doors to the store, and both locks clicked audibly closed.

"The _exact opposite_ is true… it's funnier if only a few people understand what's going on," retorted Neville. "_Stupefy! Stupefy!_"

"Iksa jir!" screamed one soldier, still pointing his gun at Neville and wildly pulling the trigger, even as two of his companions fell to the ground, shivering with red energies. A fourth soldier barked at another, "Wac caawimaad!", as he threw down his own gun and pulled a knife. It was a short blade with a tape-wrapped handle; the cutting edge was concave with long use and frequent sharpening. The Ogaden fighter hefted it lightly in one hand, and advanced, his face hard.

"_Stupefy_!" cast George and Fred in unison, and the knife-wielding soldier slouched sideways, stunned. Four of the five remaining soldiers dropped their guns and raised their hands, one pleading, "Joogso, sixir, joogso!" The fifth combatant appeared too terrified to do anything more than pull the trigger on his useless gun again and again.

The three wizards stunned them all, methodically and easily. The entire encounter was finished within a minute.

The work was easy, as it always was when the three magical knuckleheads zipped somewhere on the globe to be superheroes around Muggles. They were skilled Hit Wizards backed by the most powerful wizard and most powerful organization on the globe, and so naturally there wasn't much risk. If they did get in trouble, they'd teleport out and call in like… fifty more guys. It was like the SAS fighting toddlers, and the most serious danger to the trio was the terrible quality of their own jokes. Example: they'd called their trio the "Shichinin" (七人, or "Seven People") because they really loved a Kurosawa movie Harry had once shown them, and because Fred and George were certain that "our enemies will think there's four more of us somewhere!"

After they'd finished stunning the soldiers, Neville, Fred, and George took their guns and ammunition, feeding them into pouches designated for that purpose (whose extra-dimensional space must be positively bulging with tens of thousands of pounds' worth of armaments at this point), and Fred bubbled an Obliviator squad. It wasn't that the three of them couldn't have done the False Memory Charms, of course, but rather that the professionals had enormous experience in designing plausible multi-cultural explanations for bewildering events. They could even design the new memories to serve a larger purpose. In this case, the new memories would encourage these soldiers to abandon armed conflict and take up a peaceful political movement within Muggle Somalia.

The Obliviators were quite good at handling these situations. The usual method was to create a tragic and deeply affecting past event, prolonged discussion, and personal agreement for each participant. In Kosovo, the Obliviators had helped the Shichinin turn an entire division of the State Security Service of Yugoslavia away from violence by crafting a fictional encounter where two of their armed squads were ordered to kill an Albanian family who'd refused to leave their home. A little girl from the family made an impassioned speech and offered them flowers, instead, and all the members of that squad remembered being moved to tears and vowing to preserve the lives of the people above all else.

Harry had called it "weaponizing cognitive dissonance" when he'd given them their mission, after a considerable speech about how it was monstrously unethical to simply ignore the massacres that took place on a regular basis in the Muggle world.

"These are fancy guns," said Fred, examining the last rifle. He'd grown to be tall and handsome, with a thick mop of reddish-brown hair and a strong jaw. "Very shiny and new." He threw it to George, who caught it and squinted at it closely.

"We've been seeing a lot of fancy guns, lately," said George, nodding. George had also grown to be tall and handsome, although - unlike his brother - he had a strong jaw and a thick mop of reddish-brown hair. He glanced at Neville. "Remember the guns we got off those fellows in Jijiga?"

Fred spoke to the pouch in his hand: "Gun from Jijiga warehouse." When a stock appeared at the mouth of the pouch, Fred grabbed it and pulled a rifle free. The mouth of the pouch chewed toothlessly at the gun as it emerged, the lips undulating around the weapon. It was a rifle just like the one in George's hand: matte black metal with a plastic-looking black stock. It looked much more modern than the cheap Chinese or Eastern European guns they usually found (mostly AK-47s or variants).

Neville sat on a stack of plastic-wrapped soda flats, frowning. "Where is the ONLF getting these guns?"

"Let's ask them! Fred, do you speak Somali?" asked George.

"Why no, George. Say, do _you_ speak Somali?" said Fred.

"I used to, Fred, but I'm afraid being forced to watch boring movies where mustachioed men bang coconuts together has quite driven it out of my head," said George, sadly.

"That's a shame, George."

"A terrible tragedy, Fred."

"Maybe quoting constantly about dead parrots will help bring the knowledge back, George."

"Why of course, Fred! That's the ticket! That won't be extremely annoying at all!"

"You just don't appreciate true genius," said Neville, sourly. The wiry young man had a prominent nose and flashing green eyes. He gestured for the rifle, and George threw it over to him. Neville spoke to his own pouch. "Gun encyclopedia."

"True genius is repeating the same 'nudge nudge wink wink' line over and over, George."

"Quite right, Fred! And singing songs about lumberjacks!"

"AK-101," said Neville, comparing a photograph in _The Illustrated World Encyclopedia of Guns_ with the rifle in his hand. "Oh, bloody hell, it says that right on the barrel. And there's a date. 1999… these are brand new. 'ИЖМАШ'… these are Russian, not cheap knock-offs."

"The OLNF is getting monies from Egypt-" said Fred, more seriously.

"-but where did they find someone to sell them these?" said George.

"Those Eritrean blokes had fancy rifles, too. The ones shooting civilians in Maidema?" said Fred.

"Someone is aggravating these wars, on purpose or for profit," said George, scowling.

"You're thinking what I'm thinking?" Neville asked, feeding gun and book back into his pouch.

"Find the source of the fellow willing to sell the best hardware to the worst people-" said George.

"-and cut off the supply, and maybe his hands too-" said Fred.

"-and we might save a lot more lives," finished Neville.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_April 3rd, 1999_

_Jijiga, Somali Regional State, Ethiopia_

The rangeland surrounding the city of Jijiga was greener than it usually would have been; the drought had killed off eight of every ten grazing cattle, and the xerophytic acacia and crossberry on the gentle hills around the city had flourished in their absence. The warehouse was in a small complex of storage buildings to the north, past the airport and the dry riverbed. It was actually quite a pretty area - quiet, and far enough from the main city that there were almost none of the sun-bleached scraps of trash that were usually littered everywhere.

As they approached the building on foot, Fred and George paused to gather handfuls of crossberries, and some of the purple, star-shaped flowers. They would be a nice surprise for their mum. If there had been any observers, it would have looked an odd sight: the Shichinin were Disillusioned, and it would have seemed as though berries and flowers were vanishing into thin air, one by one.

Outside of their Mobile Mary, the trio was virtually always Disillusioned. It was an unfortunate necessity when working in any of the places in the world where white people were rare. There were other ways to avoid sticking out, of course, but this was the easiest.

Neville pushed open the simple door to the plain corrugated metal of the warehouse. It was unlocked, and the place looked deserted. The heavy metal shelves were mostly bare. The entire place appeared just as it had when they'd left a week ago, except that the four stunned guards and Obliviator squad had gone, and the eight crates of automatic weapons had been disposed of (the large crates being rather too inconvenient for the Shichinin to take care of themselves).

Fred and George made a beeline for the two old card tables that had been set up in one corner. They'd remembered that there had been some paperwork there - shipping forms and tariff slips. Ethiopia had strict import and export controls, as well as high tariffs. The two wizards found something that appeared to be a ledger, with numbers in columns that they guessed represented wholesale costs, shipping fees, tariffs, label numbers, and the amounts spent on bribes (considered a reasonable business expense here, indeed as in most countries). The shipments were mostly small, but a few shipments had big numbers - hundreds of thousands of birr, the local Muggle money. Not knowing how much the guns cost or the exchange rate for… well, anything to anything else, really… it was hard to figure out if these were the shipments they wanted.

"We better take this," said Fred.

"Maybe someone can sort it out for us later," agreed George.

They fed the ledger into Fred's pouch, and checked in with Neville. He wasn't inside, but they soon found him. He was sorting through discarded shipping crates. Most of them had been reused or repurposed, but some of them were broken or damaged along the joints, and had been tossed in a haphazard pile outside the warehouse. Many of the more robust crates had handfuls of moldy hay still inside of them, which had once kept contents dry and cushioned.

"Find anything?" he asked, as he shifted broken-sided crates around.

"A ledger for recording transactions, we think," said George.

"Maybe just looks like it, though," added Fred as an afterthought.

"Oh ho… creeping quackgrass!" said Neville, delighted. He snatched up a loose handful of of withered brown stalks from one of the crates.

Fred and George looked at each other, trying to decide if he'd made that up. They decided that he hadn't.

"Of course it is," said Fred.

"We were about to say the same thing," said George.

"Bleeding obvious it's quacking creepgrass," snorted Fred.

"Embarrassing you even have to say anything, really," laughed George.

"No… there's some Siberian Spurge in here, too… _Euphorbia seguieriana_," mused Neville. "I wonder if this is a different wheatgrass, other than quackgrass."

"What do you feed a boffin like this?" Fred asked George.

"Nothing, you just let them swot and change their litter regularly," answered George.

"_Grass Genera_," commanded Neville to his pouch. He sat down with the resulting _The Grass Genera of the World_, and got to work.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

At least an hour and four games of gobstones later, Neville made a hooting sound of glee. "I have it, gentlemen!" He leapt to his feet, and trotted over to where Fred and George were squatting, flicking marbles on a chalked-up board. Fred looked up, wiping his face, and asked, "Oh, good, we were worried it would take forever-"

"-and be extremely boring to even think about," said George, scooping up the gobstones.

"This hay is from the Don River valley in Russia!" said Neville, grinning hugely. "The only place where any _Agropyron _grows with the _Euphorbia seguieriana _subspecies _niciciana_! It's… it's... " He grasped for some suitable word. "It's elementary!" he declared, after a moment, lamely.

It might seem unbelievable that anyone could be such a nerd.

And yet it's true.

"Then it's back to Abuja-" said Fred, referring to Nigeria's capital.

"-where we can catch a portkey back home for a nap and some brekkie," finished George, referring to rashers and eggs.

"And then: Russia!" declared Neville, relishing the idea. He triumphantly held a handful of moldy hay.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_A nap and brekkie later_

_Main Office, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Ministry of Magic, London_

"Good evening, gentlemen," said Director Diggory. He was examining a map on the wall, tracing routes with his finger as he consulted one book plucked from a large stack, and occasionally sipping a large mug of tea.

The young man was only a few years their senior, and they'd all once gone to school together. The twins had even had a nickname for Cedric: "Pretty Boy Diggory." Director Diggory was aware of this, but - oddly - didn't find the name all that hurtful. He'd had to grow a thick skin, since he was in command of aurors decades older than him. Fortunately for him, there were few complaints by this point, six months into his command. He benefited from a great many factors: he was shockingly good at his job, he was blisteringly handsome in a way that made Madame Bones blush, he was personal friends with the Tower, and he was from a house so Noble and Most Ancient that the _first _Chief Auror had been named Eldritch Diggory (who had gone on to be Minister for Magic).

"We brought in a temporary Muggle expert with the usual procedure, and sorted some of this out," said Diggory, closing the book next to him and sitting at his desk. He brought his tea with him, setting it at his elbow. He picked up a sheet of parchment. "He's identified the source of that crate: an airport in Russia in a town called Mikhaylovka, by way of Veshenskaya."

"Ah, yes," said George, wisely.

"We summer there," said Fred.

"Lovely place," said George.

"Wonderful flowers," said Fred.

"Beautiful plumage," said Neville.

The twins groaned.

"You three go to Russia. Bring Bogdanov with you; she'll be able to help."

The twins groaned a second time, and George flopped dramatically forward onto Diggory's desk for a moment, leaning over the Director's tea with exaggerated despair. Ilya Bogdanov had been the head of the Office for the Detection and Confiscation of Counterfeit Defensive Spells and Protective Objects until recently. She had survived the great purge of the Ministry in 1994, probably as an attempt to conciliate the Malfoy faction by leaving one of their number in a position of power, but she'd burned through all of her chances to turn over a new leaf, and had been demoted. Percy had told the twins at family dinner one Sunday that Bogdanov had been lucky to keep any sort of job at all, since they'd had dozens of complaints about her attitude.

"That's enough," said Diggory, scowling. "None of you knows Russian or Russian. Bogdanov speaks eight languages, and grew up with Russian. She went to Durmstrang, too, and most of the people now in charge there were her classmates. If you want to do this thing, tracking down guns in one of the Independent states, you're taking her. Things are too tense with them right now, politically... we don't want to push them further away thanks to some idiots meddling in their affairs without a guide. I don't care what you think of personality. Take her… otherwise, you're off to Yemen, _tout de suite_!"

The Shichinin grumbled as they walked down the hall to the elevators, to head down to the ODCCDSPO's overflow offices.

"She's a pureblood fanatic from Russia who graduated Durmstrang, loves Malfoy, and just got demoted," said Neville, glumly. "We'll be there ten minutes before she stuns us in the back and feeds pieces of us to snargaluffs."

"All the more reason to take her along-" said George.

"-and expose her as a traitor," said Fred.

"But we'll be in pieces inside of snargaluffs!" objected Neville.

"When else will we have the opportunity to flush her out? She's kept her head down since she lost her position to Covenant, keeping quiet. Probably spending her time sending detailed reports to Narcissa and Draco Malfoy," said Fred.

"And relaxing in her off-hours, painting a series of tasteful landscapes in the blood of muggleborns," said George.

They stepped onto the elevator, accompanied by a flurry of interdepartmental memos that circled busily overhead, and hit the button for the fourth level. Almost half of all DMLE and DMAC (Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes) offices were now on other floors, since the second and third floors were full. Aurors and arithmancers and a few other professions had done very well in the Ministry, of late. Fortunately, there was room to spare, since middle management and licensing boards and regulators had been decimated. The entire games division had simply been sacked in 1995, after losing half their staff the year before.

Fred knocked on Bogdanov's door when they arrived there, calling out, "Hello? Madame Bogdonov?"

"Come," said a sharp voice, and George opened the door.

"Hullo, Madame," said Fred to the older witch who was sitting at a desk inside the cramped and dark office. "The Director sent us… he was wondering if you would lend us a hand with an excursion?"

Agapa Ilyichna Bogdanov put down the parchment in her hands, looking at the Shichinin coolly. She was perhaps a hundred years of age, with grey hair kept in a short pixie cut. She was one of a shrinking percentage of older Ministry workers who hadn't taken advantage of rejuvenation, and it showed: the skin hung loose at her neck but was taut on her face, and liver spots were visible on her thin hands. Her blue eyes were still sharp, though, as she regarded them with visible displeasure.

"Hullo, gentlemen. So two Weasleys and a Longbottom want me to go on an 'excursion?' " she asked. There was only a slight trace of a Slavic accent. "I don't know whether to be flattered or frightened."

"The _Director_ has asked that you accompany us to Russia, Madame Bogdanov… we're trying to track down the source of some Muggle weapons," said Neville. "We were hoping to leave tomorrow morning, if that is possible. I hope you're not too busy?"

Bogdanov glanced at the parchment in her hands, and dropped it to the desk with a look of distaste. It fell among dozens of other sheets and forms. "I am _not_. They have put me in this dreary little office and set me to writing reports and giving depositions to the Wizengamot on counterfeit Safety Sticks and other such trivialities. It is busy work, nothing more. So no one in the department has to speak to me, you see." She collected parchments into a rough stack with a few aggressive movements, then dumped them in a pile to one side. "Why is the babe-in-charge interested in Muggle weapons?"

George explained, "Someone is selling powerful guns to some bad people in Africa - in Ethiopia - and it's making a few wars down there a lot worse. The Ogaden National Liberation Front and the Eritrean militia groups have been-"

"Wait… a wizard is selling Muggle weapons?" interrupted the witch, raising her eyebrows in surprise.

"No," said Fred. "It's probably a Muggle. But the ONLF and the Eritreans used to only have cheap old guns, and not many of them. Now they're better supplied, and it's showing in the civilian death toll down there."

"So a Muggle is selling Muggle weapons to other Muggles, and those Muggles are killing still other Muggles," said Bogdanov, rolling her eyes. "What is our concern?"

"_That_ is our concern," said George. "A lot of people are being hurt-"

"-and we're in a position to stop it," said Fred.

"I know your little trio's mandate," said Bogdanov, rising to her feet and walking to the coatrack. She pulled down her cloak, and settled it over her robes. "But surely you don't waste your time pretending to be some sort of… Muggle aurors? What possible difference do you make, when they die like ants all day long?"

Fred and George glanced at each other. Their lips were tight. Neville hurriedly spoke up. "We've been making a lot of difference. We're mobile, we're effective, and we're stopping hundreds of future deaths every day."

"And why is that our responsibility? Are we Muggles, now?" she asked, fastening her cloak in place. "No, never mind. Spare me. I will go with you, no argument. Better than pushing parchment here. And it has been months since I was back home. Let us go make arrangements."

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

The limit on how far one could Apparate was a combination of the physical and metaphorical distance. Land's End to John o' Groats was a single trip for a native Englishman, but a Bulgarian attempting the hop had better have his three D's firmly in mind. Any trip of any considerable distance, then, required portkeys - for the sake of safety and brevity both. One of the great advantages enjoyed by Ministry officials - aurors and Hit Wizards included - was ready access to the Official Business desk at the Portkey Office. Further, the assistance of the Chief Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, as well as the Tower (who had considerable influence in any Treaty state, such as Nigeria), eased any concerns about international travel. The Shichinin had been extremely fortunate in their friends, as events would have it… perhaps anyone in close proximity to figures of mighty destiny would have a tendency to get caught up in orbit, swirling around in the eddies of fate.

The Shichinin, accompanied by Bogdanov, who had humorlessly told them to call her "Ilya," were soon on their way, whisked by portkey to the closest available destination to Mikhaylovka: Volgograd.

Truth be told, the portkey - the stiff and filthy cover of an old library copy of a Muggle book named _Battlefield Earth _\- came from a box labeled "Tsaritsyn," but that was nearly a century behind the times. Muggle names changed too frequently for the Portkey Office to worry about, and they made do with a huge blackboard scrawled with guides to the current nomenclature. Really, the Shichinin had gotten lucky that Russia was relatively stable: some Muggle areas were so prone to changing their names that the Office had given up. After Herzegovina's Tomislavgrad changed its name for the fourth time in a century (Duvno became Tomislavgrad became Duvno and then finally back to Tomislavgrad), the Office had stopped making portkeys for the city entirely.

It was a fairly long trip from London to Volgograd: 2,400 miles or so. They snapped the dirty piece of ruler in half, standing in the Ministry atrium off in a quiet one corner, and it felt as if a rope had been knotted around their waists and yanked violently, pulling them sideways and up and back and around. They whirled down to the ground and came to a staggering stop, but their feet sank into an inch of thick mud almost immediately. Neville waved his arms around wildly for a moment to keep his footing, his boots skidding a pace.

It was fairly cool, but not so cold that it was uncomfortable. Even here, spring was a pleasant time of year. They were in a building that was mostly empty, but which seemed to superficially resemble a barn (albeit with poor drainage). A ragged bulletin board, its lower edge looking as though it had been chewed upon, bore a few parchments stamped with the ornate crest of the Russian Oak. They were in the right place. The right muddy, run-down place. The right muddy, run-down, manure-strewn, dangerous-looking place.

"An hour and a half to Mikhaylovka," said Bogdanov, who was wrapping a scarf around her neck, having leaned her broom against the bulletin board. "We should go check in with the Domovoi here and then be on our way, if we wish to have a few hours of light when we get there. Bukavac live in the rivers and feed at night, so we should not linger. They feed on children." She glanced at her three youthful companions, who seem to have missed her implication as they buttoned mackintoshes over their robes. They only nodded, looking around warily.

The Domovoi was situated in the dirty brick Muggle civil services building, a disappointing distance away from the beautiful neoclassical City Duma. Most of the offices in the civil service appeared to have no function except to support an astonishing variety of people taking quiet naps. The Domovoi was one of these: a sleepy-looking little man with a wilting wet mustache, who unquestioningly stamped their documents and waved them on their way. He probably would have done the same if a trio of Voldemorts in fiery hats appeared in front of him with their own documents. It was comforting to know that there was some constancy in the world.

They kicked off from outside of the building within minutes, riding cruiser brooms that were comfortable for long hauls, but which could be adjusted for better speed and maneuverability if necessary (mostly a matter of aerodynamics and swapping out the forward hand-hold, to replace the Braking Charm with a version featuring tighter turns). They flew while Disillusioned, as standard procedure dictated. The invisibility might seem silly, especially when they left the last buildings of Volgograd far behind, and the only Muggle road wended its way in and out of sight among vast stretches of unpopulated wheatfields and steppes below, but time had proven its utility. The only annoying thing was the necessity to use minor charms to keep track of everyone's location, and the occasional confusion that resulted when someone fell behind (bathroom breaks were the usual culprit).

After a longish period of silence, Bogdanov drew her broom alongside Neville's, and called out a question. She had to raise her voice to be heard over the wind.

"Tell me something," she called. "Why are more Muggles a good thing?"

"What?!" replied Neville, unsure if he'd heard her correctly. He'd thought she had asked why more Muggles would be a good thing, but that was something a cartoonish sociopath would say.

"Why are more Muggles a good thing? You're interfering with their little wars to save them, and now we go to stop Muggles from selling Muggle guns to other Muggles. You're taking responsibility for them, like a shepherd. But shepherds have a very good reason for their work. What is your reason?"

There were spells to make this sort of chatting easier in the face of the wind, but Neville wasn't sure he wanted to be having this conversation at all, so he didn't cast any of them. "We're not shearing the Muggles, if that's what you're asking," he said.

"No, but you're making yourself their masters, which seems a curious thing for someone like you to do. To step in and say who should live and who should die - by virtue of where you intervene and where you do not - that is making choices for them, yes? And you are deciding as a principle that more Muggles is better. You want to stop them from being shot, yes?" Bogdanov sounded amused by the entire idea: Neville could imagine her sharp eyes as sardonic and mocking.

"Sort of," said Neville, after pausing to think. "It's more… if you have the ability to save someone's life - anyone's life - you should do it. And that's especially true when it's very easy." He pointed down to the ground below them, picking out a small lake from near its parent river as it passed beneath, then realized she couldn't see the gesture. "Like if there was a person down there in the pond, even a stranger, you would go and help them. That's still something you should do if the pond is a mile away, or a hundred miles away."

To Bogdanov's credit, she didn't answer right away, but actually thought about what she'd heard. This is rarer than one might imagine. Their brooms drifted apart. Eventually, though, she pulled back in close, and said, "I should think that it would be good if I could save the person, but it is not my duty. Not my job." Neville was going to reply, but she went on. "And if I save one person, then I would have to save the person in the next pond, yes? Otherwise I am deciding that the first person is better. Soon I am saving all the people in all the ponds… being _able_ to do it makes it _necessary_, for you, yes? We do what we must, because we can?"

Neville had a ready answer for this, since he'd heard Hermione Granger talk about this with Harry. He shook his head, and called back, "No… you rescue as many people as you can, without ruining your own life. Doing the right thing can't mean destroying yourself."

"Can't it?" called back Bogdanov, maddeningly, and pulled her broom away. But Neville wasn't about to challenge his own conclusions just because this Russian witch was confusing contrariness for wittiness. He rolled his eyes and kicked his broom up another ten meters, pulling level with where his charm said the twins would be.

"Well, that was an unpleasant conversation," he said to the air.

"Tell me something, young man -" called George.

"- have you really never tried a fine filet of Muggle?" said Fred, smacking his lips noisily.

Bogdanov was left to fly alone the rest of the journey, while the Shichinin chatted about other ways to leverage their mission. The older woman might have meant to be nasty, but she'd brought to Neville's mind the possibility of force-multipliers. This single arms dealer could be - _should be_ just the beginning of a new phase of their operations. It was widely known (widely rumoured, anyway) that Harry was engaged in all sorts of Muggle charity. Fred was friendly with a bloke who worked as an arithmancer at the Ministry, and it was apparently a pretty open secret that they were shipping out truckloads of advanced water filters, cooking stoves, and other goods. So Neville and the twins didn't think they'd step on his toes, there. But it would be quick and easy to smash up some weapons factories, for example. There were strict regulations about subverting Muggle politics, but none of the Shichinin could think of any legal, ethical, or practical objection to making sure that arms manufacturing suffered a brisk run of bad luck.

What could be wrong with that, really?

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

Bogdanov brought her broom up to their level, clicking at them four times. They all dropped their Disillusionment for the time being, and came to a halt. Fred leaned over and pulled a beetle out of Neville's hair, where the thing had become trapped at some point during the past hour or so.

"Mikhaylovka," Bogdanov said, pointing ahead. It looked like just larger version of some of the uninteresting grey Muggle towns they'd passed, but a brightly-colored banner was visible strapped to a grain elevator and labeled with blocky Cyrillic lettering - it must have meant something to Bogdanov.

Crescent lakes, reservoirs, and canals marked this southern side of the town, as well as some industrial-looking buildings to the east. Squat houses with fenced-in grounds surrounded one large lake directly in front of them, continuing off to the west.

Fred took out a pair of omnioculars, and scanned the town. Train tracks bisected Mikhaylovka - if the shipment of arms they'd tracked had needed to be moved about, before being loaded on a plane and sent on to Veshenskaya, that may have been how it had been done. Wordlessly, Fred held the omnioculars to one side, where George was holding out his hand.

"Not a lot of factories, here. Some other Muggle industries, but not a lot of manufacturing on a big scale," said George, peering through the device.

"Some places working with big piles of rock and sand, other places with grain silos and those trucks… not a lot of big factories," agreed Fred.

"It has been much time since Muggle Mastery for me," said Bogdanov, leaning forward on her broom and using one finger to push her hair off of her forehead. "What do you mean?"

"They're saying that the Muggle who shipped the guns to Africa probably wasn't selling them directly - whoever operates from here was a middleman. Like how Potage's doesn't make the cauldrons they sell… they buy them from craft-shops, instead," said Neville.

"Maybe the gun craft-shop is hidden here as something else," said Bogdanov. She might have been trying to be helpful, or she might have just enjoyed meddling.

Neville shrugged. "Maybe. But to run a place like that, you need lots of things from other Muggle places, I think. Hard to hide… and why bother?" He shook his head. "Plus, our current theory is that the whole thing is illegal, so we're really looking for a middleman, like Potage."

"Nip in the train station-" said Fred.

"-and have Madame Bogdanov chat with someone who might know?" said George, lowering the omnioculars and offering them to the Russian witch. She waved them away, and Neville swung his broom around to take them, instead.

"Sounds like a plan. Madame, if you're up for a quick chat and Confundus Charm? The airstrip here looks small, so if many heavy industrial crates, ones that may contain guns, have been trucked on out there from the train station over the past year, that's probably our guy. There shouldn't be that many… too expensive for most shipping." said Neville. "We find the source, and we've found our arms dealer… and whoever's stoking the flames in Ethiopia."

"Happily I will comply. Why so easy, though? Would this person not fear Muggle authorities?" Bogdanov said. They all began lowering their altitude, to bring themselves to a rest behind a deserted-looking grain silo.

"I don't think it's something they worry about here-," said George.

"-although Muggle politics are bloody insane, so who even knows." said Fred.

"So this isn't even a crime - selling the guns? You are happy to overrule their own leaders, and decide for them what should not be allowed, eh?" Bogdanov said, smiling and raising her eyebrows. "Makes sense to me, but it's surprising."

No one took the bait.

Landing on the ground, they stowed their brooms. Bogdanov didn't have Hit Wizard gear, but Fred had brought along an extra pouch for her to use as a convenience. It was actually very thoughtful of him; there were four loaner pouches in the DMLE, and he'd made sure he requisitioned the good one for her (the only one of the four that didn't stink of troll, for whatever reason). The four of them recast their disillusionment, sorted out who would lead the way with a clicker in hand, did some basic security scans to check if they were being observed, and got moving at a brisk walk.

The walk to the train station brought them almost all the way through Mikhaylovka, walking along the roads that ran next to the tracks. It seemed like the workday was winding down as the day itself waned; a scratching of cirrus clouds forming overhead helped darken the remaining daylight. Sunset proper wouldn't arrive for hours yet, but the streets were beginning to fill with people. It was only Thursday, but there were already some drinking parties audibly going on - the four wizards saw a sizeable contingent of men in overalls dusty with chalk, walking down the street with bottles in hand and enjoying the mild evening with a mellow song. Quite a nice town, really.

The train station had tall fences and some guards posted, but it was easy enough to stroll past the tollbooth and duck under the barrier arm. Bogdanov took the lead once they were up onto the rust-streaked concrete slabs of the platform, clicking three times to signal she wanted to take charge. She glanced at the signs invisibly and led them with intervals of clicks past pallets stacked with plastic sacks of concrete, forklifts, piles of rough-barked ties, and the other machinery necessary for a rural freight. Two trains were being loaded with containers of crushed rock, via slow and painstaking maneuvers with short cranes. A lot of yelling was apparently essential to the process.

Bogdanov paused in front of a red-painted door with squat green Russian words on it, and clicked four times. The four of them dispelled their Disillusionment once more, and the Shichinin followed her wordlessly into the office.

"_Confundo. _Инспекция!" said the Russian witch to the pot-bellied man in grey coveralls standing in front of a cheap plastic filing cabinet. "Я нуждаюсь в ваших записей на поставки в взлетно-посадочной полосы."

The man blinked rapidly past a pair of thick bifocals, but eventually shook his head as though to clear it, and answered hesitantly, "Конечно. Все в порядке, инспектор." He leaned down and opened the bottom drawer, drawing out a file folder and offering it to her. Its label had been scribbled out and rewritten at least five times. "Есть только несколько договоров такого рода…"

"Были ли какие-либо большие ящики груза?" asked Bogdanov, accepting the folder. She spoke sharply and brusquely. Neville glanced at the twins, uneasily.

"Курагин, только. Это тарифы?" said the man. Bogdanov brushed away the man's question with a puffing of her lips.

"I believe we have - oh, _Somnium _\- I believe we have the man you're looking for. A man named Kuragin is the only contractor in town who regularly has them run such things to the airstrip." She studied the documents in the file folder with evident distaste, as the man she'd questioned collapsed into sleep. "Lev Kuragin. Although the manifests for his shipping says that they're all 'machine parts,' this is the only person who fits your bill."

"Does it have a location there?" George asked, grunting as he dragged the man into a sitting position against one wall. Fred drew his wand and cast a quick Obliviate on the man's last five minutes.

"Yes. No trouble."

"Then you take the lead," said Neville, and Disillusioned himself. The other three followed suit, and Bogdanov led them out, clicking at intervals.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

About twenty minutes later, deep into dusk, they arrived at a prefabricated construction-site trailer resting on cinder blocks. Unfinished wood paneling and two old doors had been nailed together to extend or repair one end of the trailer, which was surrounded by weeds. A green pickup truck, bleached by the elements, sat outside next to a shiny new motorbike. There was no sign in front of the low-roofed building, but a small hand-printed label on the mailbox outside read, "КУРАГИН ЭКСПОРТ / ИМПОРТ." The windows were opaque with grime, but it was still evident that a light was on and that someone was inside. Bogdanov clicked twice. It must be the place.

"Let's go around back, and go in from there," said Fred, quietly.

"Put whoever's inside to sleep, and quiz them a bit," said George.

Somehow, although they were all still invisible, the Shichinin could hear Bogdanov roll her eyes. Still, they all moved quietly out behind the trailer, foregoing the clicks at this point, before removing their Disillusionment.

"_Phlogisticate_," cast Neville on one end of the trailer, and then again on the other end. "Guns are stupid," he whispered to Bogdanov, turning to her.

"Agreed," replied the Russian witch.

"_Quietus_," said Neville, laying a thin blanket of quiet around the door of the trailer. It was a spell very limited in scope, but essential for moments like this.

"Just stay here-" said George.

"-and let us take care of this," said Fred.

"We're professionals," they said, in unison, looking very serious.

Bogdanov folded her arms, a light smile on her lips.

The trio of young men crept up to the trailer's back door. Neville tried the doorknob gingerly - it turned cleanly. He stepped to one side, and Fred and George squared off in front of the doorway, wands out and ready to breach. They nodded in unison at Neville, and Neville threw the door open with a convulsive motion.

It is important to note at this point that the Extinguishing Charm has no effect whatsoever on an angry dog.

One hundred and thirty pounds of angry muscle in the form of a mottled-brown Presa lunged into Fred, snapping for his throat, and the wizard was knocked backward into his twin's face. The two men and the dog fell into a struggling tangle. The impact and the snarling dog were all eerily silent for the first moment, then the wizard's backpedaling and kicking as they fought to escape the blunt-nosed snapping attack of the dog brought them out of the short range of the Quieting Charm, and the snarling of the creature burst out into the night.

Neville didn't waste any time taking careful aim, and fired off a hasty Stunning Hex immediately into the tangle just as Fred succeeded in landing a well-placed kick to the dog's snout. A pained yelp was frozen in the beast's throat. The dog trembled with a red glow for a moment, then fell stiffly onto its side.

"Nice one!" said Fred.

"Bloody hell!" said George, still lying on his back. "Someone's getting away!" He scrabbled for his lost wand. Through the rear of the trailer and the open front door, he could see a bald man throwing a leg over the motorbike parked out front. The man kicked the starter, and the motorbike's engine thrummed hoarsely.

Neville lurched forward to the open door, wand raised, and fired a second Stunning Hex. _"Stupefy!_

This time, though, luck wasn't with him. The red bolt of the stunner sizzled right over the head of the motorbike's rider, and as Neville took another step forward to fire again, his heel slid on something slick underfoot, skidding out from beneath him. He grabbed the doorway with his free hand, but still swayed in place for a moment as the motorbike jerked into motion and moved out of the narrow range of view afforded by the front door.

"Less of a nice one!" said Fred, scrambling to his feet, but Neville ignored him and sprinted forward, out into the front yard. The motorbike accelerated rapidly.

"Come on," shouted George, bursting past Neville. He threw open the door to the pale green pickup truck, climbing inside.

Fred pushed past Neville as well, running around to the other side of the cab, while George had his wand out. George squinted at the Muggle device warily, and then tapped the ignition with the tip of his wand, dubiously saying, "_Alohomora_?"

The ignition switch "unlocked," key or no, and the engine turned over and started. George looked almost criminally pleased.

"Go go go!" cried Neville, leaping into the bed of the truck with a vault. He stood up behind the cab and grabbed hold of the rear windows for hand-holds. The red light on the motorbike was receding rapidly away from them, down the road.

"Seen Dad do it a thousand times," said George, as he yanked firmly on the gearshift and stamped hard on one of the pedals in front of him. Nothing happened.

"Easy as pie," said Fred, turning the crank to roll down his window, in case that might help.

George took his foot off of one pedal, and slammed it down on the other. The truck's tires spun for a moment and then the vehicle caught traction and began to move rapidly backwards. "Got it!" he said, still grinning and turning to look behind him. His view was obstructed by Neville's crotch. "You're in the way, Neville!"

"Stop stop stop!" shouted Neville in reply. He clutched the roof of the truck desperately as the vehicle thumped vigorously over some stray cinder blocks and the kerb, out onto the street.

"We'll have to tell Dad about this!" called Fred, holding his wand to the dashboard in front of him and flexing his fingers for the delicate Charm of Perfect Function.

George took his foot off of the gas, and yanked on the gearshift again. The truck made a horrid squeal, sounding almost like a precisely-tooled machine being badly abused. Indeed, logic and mercy dictated that the engine should probably seize up and die, but Fred's timely spell prevented that. The truck's motor immediately became a throaty purr, and George stepped on the gas again.

As the car began to lurch forward, George turned the wheel rapidly, aligning the truck with the motorbike that was now turning out of sight at the end of the lane. George stamped on the gas as hard as he could, and the truck's engine roared.

The entirely ridiculous chase was on.

The motorbike had many advantages, though - being agile and quick to accelerate - and by the time they reached the end of the lane, it had already reached the end of the next road, and was making another turn. Even with magical enhancement and the enthusiasm of the ignorant, the truck just wasn't fast enough.

"_Stupefy!_" said Neville, and shot a glowing red bolt at the motorbike before it vanished from sight. He was far too distant to hit, but the escaping Muggle seemed to have been startled or confused by the stunner, since he swerved wildly and barely remained upright as he sped out of sight. Neville wasn't even sure he wanted to hit the man anyway… being stunned while going that speed stood a good risk of killing a Muggle. He pounded on the roof with his free hand to urge the truck on, but George already had the gas floored back down.

"Sure, we could have used our brooms-" said Fred, turning the knobs on the radio.

"-but what fun would that have been, honestly?" agreed George, spinning the wheel until the vehicle threatened to tilt onto one side as it went around the corner.

The motorbike zipped down the road past what appeared to be a cannery, accelerating rapidly. Neville almost tried a quick, "_Accio Muggle_," before remembering Cuthbert's Breathing Principle. He summoned the motorbike instead, and the white bike and its bald passenger visibly slowed. Encouraged, he did it again, even though it was a challenge just to stay in the truckbed, much less cast at the same time. The radio inside squealed hellishly, and Fred hastily started punching buttons on it, as the truck began to gain on the motorbike. Slowly, but gaining.

If they got close enough, Neville could pluck the man right up and off the bike. He holstered his wand and hammered on the roof again, leaning down to shout through the window in the rear of the truck's cab, "Get in close, I'll nab him off that thing! Can't stun him or he'll crack up all over the place!"

"Yes!" replied George, turning to look over his shoulder at Neville. "This is much safer!"

"At least we're putting him far away from Bogdanov," said Fred. "So he might not get eaten. Hold on, I know this song." He turned the volume knob on the radio.

_Gotta, gotta_

_Keep on holdin' on_

_Never gonna turn you loose_

_I can't turn you loose_

_Gotta gotta - Keep on holdin' on_

"That's on one of Dad's listening-dog discs," said George, delighted. He followed the motorbike around another turn, tires squealing. "That Muggle device he was always cranking during hols when we were twelve."

The motorbike's engine revved loudly, and the rider leaned forward. Neville summoned the bike again, but the Muggle motor and magical magnetism seemed to be evenly matched. Even worse, they were heading east, out of the sparsely-populated outskirts of Mikhaylovka and towards the main body of the town. Even now, they were starting to pass cars parked on the street, and occasional people turning to stare at the high-speed chase. Empty lots and dingy warehouses were turning into shops and homes, with overgrown bushes that crowded the sidewalk and cement-block walls with iron gates. Fairly well-peopled… there was the Statute of Secrecy to think about - unless they wanted to call in about ten thousand Obliviators.

The motorbike dropped in speed, and turned sharply down a street that ran almost parallel to the one the Shichinin were on. The Muggle roared off as George hit the brakes, which shrieked in protest. They had the chance to get a good look at their target for a just a moment, as they slowed down and he sped away: a slightly overweight bald man with thick black eyebrows and a terrified look on his face.

The turn carried them away from the populated areas of town once more - that made sense, Neville realized. This guy probably was only interested in escape, not in getting caught by Muggle aurors.

The truck roared after the motorbike, and they scooted over a low bridge spanning a narrow canal, whipping past parked cars and a woman walking her dog. There was an intersection ahead, and Neville saw the bald man's goal: there was some sort of construction going on, and most of the intersection was blocked off by orange-painted wooden barricades. Even the sidewalk was blocked with some orange barrels and cement pylons, presumably to stop overzealous motorists. A ragged-edged hole had consumed most of the asphalt within the barricades, and an official-looking van was parked nearby. The obstruction slowed the traffic of the automobiles through the intersection, and there was a line of seven cars waiting ahead to inch through. The bald man was going to take advantage of his broom-sized motorbike to zip through, leaving them in the dust.

"Unbreakable Charm!" he shouted through the window. His feet slid out from underneath him as he called in and the truck bumped wildly beneath him. Even with excellent balance and a death-grip on the window, he fell into the bed of the truck with a thump that was lost in the wind. He concentrated on holding on, so the constant bucking of the vehicle didn't just throw him clean out.

Fred and George must have heard him and taken his meaning, or come up with his same plan (a frequent occurrence these days), since as Neville got up on his knees, he saw Fred touch his wand to the dashboard. In almost the same moment, he saw George jerk the wheel to the right, and felt a tremendous thump as they jumped the kerb onto the sidewalk. Neville almost went flying again, and only stayed with the truck by thrusting his arm through the rear window and clutching desperately.

_I can't turn you loose now_

_I'm in love with the prettiest thing_

_I never, never turn you loose now_

_Because of all the sweet love she brings_

_I can't turn you loose to nobody_

'_Cause I love you baby, yes I do_

The biker slowed only slightly as he reached the intersection, went to the left of the lined-up cars, and threaded past oncoming traffic. He made a left turn as soon as he could, vanishing from sight.

The truck followed to the right of the lined-up cars, shuddering along the uneven sidewalk, and smashed through the orange barrels and concrete pylons. The barrels turned out to be filled with water, which plumed behind them in a spray mixed with chunks of broken concrete as the Unbreakable truck, preserved by Fred's timely charm, cannoned on through. The motorbike was back in sight in moments as the truck shrieked its way around the corner.

The Shichinin pursued their prey, leaving wreckage in their wake.

"That Charm-" said Fred.

"-won't last long!" said George.

They glanced at each other and grinned hugely. Some Muggle devices worked perfectly well, indefinitely, when charmed. When an Unbreakable Charm or a Charm of Perfect Function wore off, you could apply another one without worry. But most Muggle machines - including any that had electronics, batteries, or the like - would endure (at most) a single application unless they were carefully prepared (replacement of a lot of the Muggle workings with magical equivalents was time-consuming and laborious). As far as they knew, no one (Harry included) had yet figured out why. Whatever the cause, though, it was certain that this particular vehicle wasn't long for this world.

"And this truck-" said Fred.

"-is bollixed when it goes!" said George.

Neville, meanwhile, struggled to his feet in the bed of the truck, holding the back of the cab with a grip so tight his hands ached. He drew his wand again. _"Accio motorbike! Accio motorbike!_" They were almost within range of _Wingardium Leviosa_. "Come on, come on!"

The motorbike accelerated, the engine now a high-pitched whine as it strained against Neville's magic. They were out in the south of the town now, a long lake to their left along the road, while clapboard houses and rickety fences whipped by on their right. Neville didn't remember the layout of the town that well, but he was fairly sure that much more travel in this direction would take them clear out of Mikhaylovka entirely, back out among the fields that they saw on their aerial approach.

_Give shaking mama,_

_I told ya I'm in love with only you_

_Gotta, do it baby why don't ya_

_I'll give ya everything you want_

The road curved to the right, and then the bald man took a sharp left turn. He almost lost control of the bike, over-correcting to the right, but he managed to wrestle it back into the straight before he took a tumble. George took a lesson, and slowed down his fierce stamping of the gas pedal on the turn. They were less than fifty meters away now.

Neville, riding higher than the twins, saw what was ahead, and began scrambling for his pouch.

Fred and George saw a moment later. George began cranking down his window with one hand and pulling out his wand with the other. Fred's window was already down, and so he did his brother the favor of taking the wheel. The quality of their driving remained exactly the same, for better or worse.

The road ended in a muddy cul-de-sac two hundred meters ahead, and the fields beyond had been flooded. It must have been done earlier today - maybe they were going to graze bicorn here, next season. It was hard to tell, but it looked like as much as a foot of muck and water sat evenly in wide pools ahead, broken only by low rocky embankments.

_Gotta gotta_

_Keep on holdin on_

_Never gonna turn you loose_

Fred took back the wheel with his right hand, and stuck his wand out the window with the other. George leaned out of the window, brandishing his own wand. Neville had put his away, so that he could try to find _that damn pouch_ in his robes _oh no oh no why don't I keep it on my belt who cares if it doesn't look cool_.

"Nevvie, hold on!" shouted George, as loudly as he could.

And that was when Neville realized that _he'd_ come up with one obvious solution that the _twins_ had come up with a completely different plan. But he had his pouch in hand now, and there was _no way their plan would work_, and so he just shrieked, "Broom!" at the pouch as hard as he could, and hoped for the best.

The motorbike buzzed off of the road and into the field ahead, sluicing through and spraying ribbons of mud and water behind him. The man barely even slowed.

"_Glacius! Glacius! Glacius! Glacius! Glacius! Glacius! Glacius! _" chanted the twins, simultaneously, wobbling the tips of their wands over and over. A simple spell with simple wandwork, but they felt their skulls ache with the strain of so much magic.

The mud and water of the field ahead froze, a spreading triangle of muck flash-chilled into brown and grey ice, crackling and cold. It looked as though winter had come to just one section of the field, icing it over to within twenty meters of their target.

Unfortunately, it was nothing like a flat surface, thanks to the passage of the motorbike. When the truck thumped off of the road and roared out into the field, it hit the uneven surface of one frozen slope, and skidded to the right, starting to spin. The tires thudded across frozen hillocks and waves of muddy ice, and the truck danced like it was a child's toy being dragged along a washboard. The Weasleys held onto anything they could find, and hooted wildly as the truck spun and shuddered. The world whirled around them, icy and uneven and crazed.

Neville was launched like a kite into the air, pinwheeling wildly and screaming, "I hate you twooooo!"

_I can't turn you loose_

The accumulated strain on the magics sustaining the truck's structure, combined with the conflict between enchantment and electronics, came to a peak. The truck's battery exploded violently, blasting open the hood, at the same instant the radio began to sizzle and shoot sparks. A hole appeared on the top of the dash, the plastic darkening and melting away, as some carefully-engineered Muggle component crackled with flames. The flaming truck spun and shook as it danced along the icy, uneven mud.

Neville was tumbling wildly, end over end, but he had presence of mind enough to clutch his broom to himself and hook his leg over it and will it to _lift_...

_Gotta keep a grip on you_

...and he swooped up (up? yes, up) into the air, orienting himself with the ground in seconds, laughing hysterically as he evened out and leaned forward, streaking towards the motorbike ahead of him like a giddy bolt of lightning.

The truck's spin slowed as it skidded out of the area that had been frozen, ice turning to slushy mud and slowing the destroyed vehicle's revolutions. Fred and George wasted no time, whooping and kicking open their doors to stagger out of the truck, sloshing around into the mud and staggering drunkenly away from the vehicle as best they could.

The radio burbled and screeched, unnaturally riven with interfering magics gone haywire, and wailed out a final line of music before dying with a last sizzle of static.

_Gotta gotta keep on holdin on_

"_Wingardium Leviosa!" _Neville cast, as he dove down over the motorbike. The rider was plucked out of his seat, legs and rear end lifted up, hands still clinging to the handlebars. The motion turned the throttle on the bike, and it revved fiercely; without the bald man's weight, the entire thing upended and tore itself out of his grasp, rolling and toppling around into the mud.

"Guns are stupid!" shouted Neville, streaking by the Muggle. The young man's mackintosh flapped around him as he flew, his brown eyes wide over his aquiline nose. "_Stupefy!_"

The bald man toppled sideways into the mud, rolling on his back with a squish of bubbles. Neville brought his broom around, and held himself stationary over the man. He found himself wishing that he hadn't stunned the fellow, or that the Muggle wouldn't be Obliviated of the whole experience, since there were all kinds of things he wanted to say, like "You can't run from the sinister seven!", or "Nothing's swifter than justice!"

He settled for shouting happily at Fred and George, rising up from the broom to call, "Do you think we can fit Muggle trucks in our pouches, so we can do that again sometime?"

"Yes, it looked like quite a ride. Quite a spectacle," said the empty air above Neville, in the voice of Ilya Bogdanov. The Russian witch materialized with a wavering in the air, sitting placidly on her broom, as she dismissed her Disillusionment. Neville started violently, his wand already pointing at her in the instinctive defense of a trained duelist before he could consciously lower his guard.

Bogdanov didn't react, only circling her broom around to face him squarely, and adding sardonically, "It has been, oh, just _delightful_ following you three idiots and cleaning up the mess so that we don't start some sort of war."

"Huh," said Fred, who was flying sedately over, dripping with mud and water and delight. "The Director thought you might help with avoiding that, actually."

"Good on him," said George. "I feel bad about the tea, now."

"Eh?" said Bogdanov, shifting to face them. Her short grey hair was disheveled, and the footbars and grips on her broom had been changed out - she must have been flying hard. But she was smiling.

"He'll forgive us-" said Fred, shrugging.

"-once he gets off the loo," finished George.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

The bald man, as it turns out, was none other than Lev Kuragin himself, the gentleman who had been shipping crates out of the town by air. And naughty Lev had been using temporary shell companies to buy serious weaponry from old Russian Army buddies. While he was happy to sell the resulting crates of weapons and ammunition to any buyer he could trust, he had found that the Ogaden National Liberation Front would pay a premium. Lev had found that the ONLF would even grease his palm if he shipped weapons to any other militant groups in or around Ethiopia, particularly since the 1995 Ethiopian elections that had pushed the ONLF out of power. An unstable country was to the advantage of the violent political minority, which was working to seize power once more.

Lev even knew the source of their money: vast funds fraudulently drawn from World Bank development efforts in Ethiopia, that had been intended for the area around Calub, as well as five wealthy Cairo financiers. And he'd been extremely willing to tell them names, addresses, and specific numbers.

Veritaserum was a wonderful thing.

After the Shichinin and Bogdanov dropped Kuragin off at the edge of town, replete with new memories to account for a missing night and morning - and a few to ensure a change of heart when it came to the arms trade - they made ready to return home, Apparating back to Volgograd and the local Domovoi. They had been concerned about having a good story ready for the sleepy-looking man with the wet mustache, but he'd stamped their documents as disinterestedly as he'd given them entrance.

Fred got out the portkey back to the Ministry lobby, holding it up. It was the broken stub of a child's plastic meterstick, in keeping with the principle that a portkey should look completely uninteresting (or even unpleasant) to casual Muggle inspection.

"Well then-" he said.

"-that was fun." George said.

"I hope it was not too boring for you, Madame Bogdanov," said Neville, taking hold of the portkey as well.

"It was actually… quite amusing, I must admit, gentlemen. Quite a bit more exciting than my current post, even if the goals here are even sillier." The Russian witch smiled again, and put her hand on theirs.

George and Fred glanced at each other.

"You know, there are five Egyptians who have been spreading money to very bad places," said George.

"We'll probably be going after them, next. We'll need someone who speaks Arabic," said Fred.

"And I can see many interesting philosophical discussions, waiting to be had…" said Neville, grinning. "How about it?"

Bogdanov sighed, and shrugged. "Why not?" She put her hand on the portkey, and leaned over to look Fred dead in the eye. "After all, I know a place in Cairo that serves an excellent fillet of Muggle."

Fred opened his mouth to say something, but she snapped the portkey, and the four of them vanished.


	22. Gholas

The Guild navigators, gifted with limited prescience, had made the fatal decision: they'd chosen always the clear, safe course that leads ever downward into stagnation.

-Frank Herbert, _Dune_

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

"_Innervate. Innervate_."

Lawrence Bradwian and Annabeth Dankgesang slumped onto the chairs that had been set behind them, their rigid bodies relaxing. "Just relax a moment, children," Harry said, from where he sat at the meeting table. "You're in the Tower, but you're fine. You were just stunned."

He glanced up at them, then returned his gaze to the book open before him. He turned a page, slowly, and his unoccupied fingers fiddled with the end of his ponytail, where it lay over his shoulder to curl under his chin. Auror Kwannon stood behind and to one side of the pair of students, watching them as she put away her wand.

"Feeling all right, Mr. Bradwian?" The boy nodded. He was an athletic boy, with striking features… perhaps Middle Eastern descent? Close-cut black hair clung in curls to his head, and his eyes were a mellow brown. Harry thought he remembered the boy's mother was from the Sawad.

"And you, Miss…?" Harry said, looking to the other student. She was a small girl, with black skin and tightly-twisted, short dreadlocks. She seemed very calm.

She cleared her throat, but spoke clearly, "Annabeth Dankesang."

"Well then, Mr. Bradwian… Ms. Dankesang…. I am Dean of the Science Program here at Hogwarts, Harry Potter-Evans-Verres. I don't believe we've had occasion to meet," said Harry, glancing back down at his book. He could hear the breath catch in Lawrence's throat at the introduction. Harry looked up again. "You brought your classmate here… Samuel Meroveni-Bowles."

Lawrence nodded, collecting himself, and he looked concerned, pursing his lips and raising his eyebrows. "Yes, sir. He fell after Div and P, and... it was bad, sir. I didn't think we could… well, Madame Pomfrey is wonderful, but like the song says, 'when in doubt, stick it out.' " The boy was quoting a promotional jingle the Tower had used a few years ago. "Is Sammy all right?"

"Oh, yes," said Harry. He watched the two children closely as he turned another page of his book, adding, "In fact, he's already back in his own bed in Ravenclaw Tower."

He could see the small muscles in the boy's cheeks flex as his jaw tightened. Annabeth did better, but her eyes opened wide despite her best efforts.

"You might be wondering why I wanted to speak to you, Lawrence and Annabeth. The reason is actually a bit embarrassing… it's been brought to my attention over the past hour that you did me quite a good turn last year, and I never thanked you. I would have done so if I'd known, of course," Harry said. He turned his head so that his ponytail would slip off his shoulder, out of sight behind him. "I had a question, first, though."

"Of course, sir," said Annabeth.

"Well, then… I suppose I'll start off by saying that I don't believe in cruelty, so we'll just out with it now: you're pinched. Caught. Discovered. I have had people toy with me too often when they had some small measure of power over me, often in the form of information I needed, and so I don't have much liking for it. So it's best you know straightaway. I'll give you a moment to think about that and decide if you believe me." Harry looked back down at the book and read the page before him as the seconds passed, stretching uncomfortably. After a minute, he finally looked up again. The two students were sitting still, hands folded in their laps. Lawrence looked like was trying to swallow with a dry mouth.

"I must confess that you will feel quite stupid, very shortly. I'm sorry about that," said Harry. "But before we get there, my question: why in Merlin's name did you think it would be okay to badly injure - very nearly kill - your classmate, just to get what you want?" He paused, and clucked his tongue thoughtfully. "Or maybe: why did you think _I_ would think that was okay? Surely you at least _considered_ your plan might go wrong? Didn't you stop to think of the possible consequences?"

"I'm not sure what you mean, sir," said Lawrence. His voice warbled on the second word, and he looked worried.

_Wise not to try to appear calm, little Larry, nor indignant. But an innocent student would just be _confused. _Maybe it's because people worry so much about being caught for the things we've really done that we tend to be completely baffled by false accusation._

"Auror Kwannon, how many people are stepped-down in the clinic right now, in hold?" Harry said, turning to her and leaning to rest his chin on one hand.

Kwannon reached into her pocket and pulled out a small brown abacus, identical to the one on the table. She consulted it for a moment. "Four, sir. Not too many in Receiving or being treated, either. Slow day."

Harry turned and looked steadily at the students once more. Annabeth's mouth had opened slightly and Lawrence looked nauseous, as if he'd been kicked in the stomach. Harry supplemented the effect by shoving one of the parchments in front of him towards the pair, with its decoded - and obviously false - message.

_THECUPISNOTENOUGHWEMUSTADDTOOURCOLLECTIONIBELIEVETHATMANYITEMSOFGREATPOWERAREHELDINTHETOWERPREPARETHEPLANWESPOKEABOUTBEFOREANDWEWILLCOMMUNICATEWITHTHEABACUS_

The abacuses were used in the clinic to track the flow of patients. Harry waited a moment for the magnitude of their mistake to sink into the pair.

"You had some clever ideas. But while the tactics were clever, the strategy didn't really make much sense," Harry continued. "You were operating at an information deficit, and you _knew that_, and still didn't account for it."

"But if the abacus is…" Annabeth said, brow furrowing. Harry was able to watch her as her thoughts progressed, and he wondered if this was what it had been like to deal with himself as a child… cleverness and innovation trapped inside of a fishbowl-sized world, unable to grasp the limits of their perspective and experience. When you can only see a handful of moving parts, the machine of the world looked so simple and easy to manipulate. He remembered his stumbling horror when he'd been given occasion to see the workings laid bare, in all their complexity and danger.

"Yes, you understand, I see," said Harry. Lawrence's pallor looked distinctly yellowish, but he still seemed more confused than horrified. Slower on the uptake. Harry addressed himself to Annabeth, who was clearly the brains of the operation (such as that might be) and the leader of the duo. "So then: it seems as though you attempted to murder young Sammy, with whom you've had some problems in the past. You've been stunned for about five hours, now, and I had a chance to speak to your victim, your Headmistress, and Director Diggory of the DMLE."

Harry closed the book, a little more forcefully than necessary. "When I was your age, I took it as a great offense that no one did me the courtesy of dealing with me directly unless I forced the issue. So then, let me be direct: you have been idiots on a scale that you cannot yet fully appreciate. Not only was your plan unlikely to work, you thought it was wise to try to use it to frame a classmate - a boy who has been involved in some dark dealings indeed with the rest of his family, some of whom were expelled for their pains, but who didn't do anything wrong here."

He stood now, rising and placing both palms on the table in front of him, looking down on the two students with cold green eyes. "You are said to be 'Silver Slytherins,' but I wonder if that little faction of Draco's has turned out to mean anything at all in his absence. He told me, once, that it was about the purity of truth - that he'd learned that truth was the most important thing, even when plotting, since if you didn't know the reality of the world then you couldn't _affect it_, no matter how brilliantly effective your plans might otherwise be. That's why you need both instrumental rationality - acting based on truth - and epistemic rationality - knowing what is true. They are both necessary if you want things to happen as you desire."

Lawrence had rallied, now. Harry imagined the boy forcing down his nausea and searching for an escape. The boy forced himself upright in the chair and thrust out his chin, saying, "But that's the very reason why we acted… we knew the truth, and wanted to act on it. The Meroveni-Bowles are _no good_ and-"

"And you wanted to make your enemy pay for something, even if you couldn't make him pay for his real crimes. What was it that he'd done, exactly, Mr. Bradwian?" said Harry, and now his voice was as cold as his eyes.

"He and his family tried to kill Turm, just because they were ashamed of what their father had done - because they were ashamed of their half-brother. They tried to _kill _him," said Lawrence. The boy rose up slightly out of his seat as he spoke, taking strength from his indignation. "They stole potion ingredients from Hogwarts, from Professor Slughorn's stores and the greenhouses, so that they could supply Ragged Rooncrown and his Euphoric distribution in Knockturn Alley! They tried to steal Helga Hufflepuff's Cup from Smith Manor - and that's wrong, even if it turns out _you _did it, sir! And Sammy tried to kill me in a duel when Annabeth and I stopped the Meroveni-Bowles! His sister and brother were expelled, but he managed to get out of all the trouble for everything, just because they took the blame!" Now he was standing, and Harry noticed that Lawrence was actually his same height, so that Harry had to stand up straight and stop leaning on the table in order to look the boy in the eyes. Maybe he should make himself taller. Auror Kwannon had moved to one side and drawn her wand, clearing her line of sight, though her wand remained casually at her side.

Lawrence was incensed now, having worked himself up into enough outrage to serve as a shield from his shock and fear. The boy's clear young eyes were narrowed in anger. He lifted a finger and jabbed it in Harry's direction. "And Sammy was never going to die, since I was waiting at the bottom of the stairs to catch him with _Wingardium Leviosa_. No one saw that, but veritaserum can prove it." He lowered his hand. "I stopped him from falling so fast, and I _saved his life_. But he needed to pay for what he's done. I wasn't doing anything but justice."

"Samuel Meroveni-Bowles comes from an unpleasant family, but he has not, to my knowledge, done anything more than get dragged along with his older brother and sister and be bullied into helping them occasionally. Questioning under veritaserum revealed a scared boy in a bad clan trying to muddle his way through… rather a different picture than you'd paint in defense of your actions. The child has not earned a brutal beating and near-death experience, even if you managed to stop yourself short of giving him an execution." Harry looked at Lawrence, coldly and with clear contempt. Annabeth had leaned forward and buried her face in her hands, and was crying quietly. "You are badly in need of a lesson on losing… a lesson I once had to learn, as it happens, but one which I have no time to teach at the moment."

Harry pushed back his chair and walked to the end of the table, where two wands were sitting. He picked up Lawrence's in one hand, then looked back at its owner. "To your great good fortune, _Prior Incantato_ showed that you did help arrest the vicious fall that you caused. And to your even greater fortune, no lasting harm appears to have been done. Sammy doesn't remember anything. But you are a thuggish young pair, and stupid. You have brutalized a boy in an act of vigilantism because you were _sure _he was guilty though you had no proof - the swan song of so many thugs, who always manage to make themselves the true hero or victim."

Lawrence sagged back into his chair, his bravado evaporating like the bluff that it was. He stared ahead of himself, and Harry knew that consequences and dread were playing out in his head.

"You have been bullies - stupid ones. You have brought shame to your families and your House and to whatever the Silver Slytherins might be, these days, besides a fashionable social club. I want you to understand that, Lawrence and Annabeth. Where you're going, you will need that understanding. You will need that lesson to make you strong."

Annabeth began crying even harder, her shoulders shaking, and Lawrence slumped forward, gripping the arms of his chair spasmodically. He looked about ready to cry. Harry waited. Not to be cruel, but because he knew from experience that it was very difficult to change who you were. They needed to sit there with bile rising in their throats, tears burning hotly in their eyes, seeing their entire futures burning around them… and they needed to know that they weren't being oppressed.

Harry knew that it was a difficult thing to realize that you'd never really been the hero, all along - to know that you were some form of lesser villain, deluded and stupid in your villainy - somehow even less than the honest evil, since you rewarded yourself with misplaced righteousness. Let them see the tears of their mothers waiting in the future, the bitter scorn of Headmistress McGonagall, the tall walls of Howard Prison.

"You will need that lesson, because you are going to help me with something," Harry said. "The world is changing quickly these days, and a great many very smart people have convinced me that my previous strategy hasn't been working…. so you are going to help me with a new one."

"_One constrains the partner's choice by constraining one's own behavior,"_ Schelling had written in _The Strategy of Conflict_. "_The object is to set up for one's self and communicate persuasively to the other play a mode of behavior (including conditional responses to the other's behavior) that leaves the other a simple maximization problem whose solution for him is the optimum for one's self, and to destroy the other's ability to do the same."_

In other words, strategically limit one's own courses of action to only allow for the ones you prefer, so your enemy must either allow you to move unmolested, or else move against you in one of the styles you've chosen for them - since by limiting your own available responses, you've limited their ability to provoke you to unfavorable action.

"You are going to join the Honourable, Lawrence and Annabeth," Harry said. He dropped Lawrence's wand on the table. "It was you two who helped my people discover where the Cup of Helga Hufflepuff was being stored, secretly mewed up in Hepzibah Smith's house after her death, so I know you can be of some use. And perhaps now you understand your weaknesses in terms of strategy. And maybe in time, you might even understand the value of life and the price of pain, and why I have dedicated my existence to preserving the one and preventing the other."

"We can't be spies," Lawrence said, dully. He turned to stare at Harry. "I'm only fifteen."

"I have good reason to think that your ages will help make you _excellent_ spies, in this case, Mr. Bradwian. I have a plot in mind to improve the world, or at least one small corner of it, and you are an absolutely necessary part of that," said Harry. The Dean of the Science Program returned to his seat, where the book he'd been reading lay on the table in front of him. "I will give you instructions on how to get started. We will not be meeting for a while, I'm afraid. Pip will be in touch, though." Harry picked up the book again, and opened it back to the page where he'd left off. "I'm not asking, of course. But I don't see how my little plot could work without you, and with your callous stupidity and violence you've forfeited a great deal." He looked down at the page, and resumed reading. "I think one day you'll understand, if it's any consolation. Goodbye."

Kwannon stepped forward, now, gesturing at Lawrence to get up. The boy did, as slowly and gingerly as if he were afraid of breaking something. He gently put a hand under Annabeth's elbow, and guided her to her feet, as well. She didn't stop crying, keeping her face hidden. The auror escorted the children out of the room, pausing only to collect their wands.

Harry returned to _God-Emperor of Dune_, and read quietly for some time.


	23. Reproduction in Miniature

The town of Ipswitch often claims to be Britain's oldest town, since it is known that the community has persisted unbroken since the early seventh century. The wizarding world knows better - Diagon Alley is the oldest continuous community in Britain, surviving since the fourth century before Christ, when it began as a single cottage built by a Greek wizard, a wanderer who had abandoned his century-long journey in search of the legendary Cup of Midnight in order to create a home in this distant land of savages. In one shape or another Diagon has existed ever since, rebuilding homes and shops as needed. It is because of this antiquity that, when Merlin wrought the stone of the Wizengamot and made himself the leader of the magical world, he did so in London. He may have also been honouring the long-ago Greeks who brought wands and high magic to Britain for the first time, although he said nothing of this.

Tír inna n-Óc is older.

That fact no longer means much, truth be told. Tír inna n-Óc was woven from nightmare before Ελαολογος even left in pursuit of the Cup of Midnight, and by the time that Cup was broken in the eleventh century - woe be upon the breaker of that precious cup! - the hellscape of Tír inna n-Óc had already been abandoned by the Tuath and the Unseelie, and no creature called it home.

The realm persisted, regardless. It had been crafted from the horror-dreams of nameless beasts of the sea, creatures no longer known to man or wizard that lie still and breathe salt and do not die, and Tír inna n-Óc would endure as long as long as they.

In a world as inundated with possibility and conflict as our own, it is not surprising that such places exist and have been lost or forgotten. Merlin ensured that on the day that he laid down his Interdict to shackle the ambitions of wizardkind. The essence of a spell or ritual must pass from one living mind to another, and so each generation is lessened - for while tricks and cantrips may accumulate to dry your boots and fix your glasses, only the most powerful and daring are capable of mastering the greatest of works, and they have every reason to hoard such advantages until they die and their secrets are lost. Merlin intended to limit the extent of possible disasters - he learned from the example of Atlantis, though it was but a legend even in his time. Let wands turn into sticks, in time... since at least there would still be sticks remaining.

It is as Zeira wrote in the Midrash, many years ago: "If the early scholars were like sons of angels, we are like people; if they were like people, we are like donkeys."

But enough of these jots and tittles from the past: at this moment, Tír inna n-Óc has visitors. Three figures had come to stand on the shore of the lake of teeth, where the black hills come to an end. They were perhaps the only three people yet remaining who knew of this nightmare realm or how to access it, although the Tuath might be angered to learn that the place has become little more than a meeting-room, chosen because it transcends physicality and may be accessed from anywhere on the planet. The ritual needs nothing more than the nightmare of a sleeping child and the eye of a murdered man - both easily obtained by the unscrupulous.

The appearance of the three figures was solid and distinct, but composed entirely of genderless black shadows in continual motion. The shadows were incomprehensibly complex - were you to examine any one part of the inky smoke that roiled and twisted in black cords to define three figures, you would see smaller figures within, composed of yet smaller figures, all infinitely refracted.

The three figures spoke in a dialect of Norman French that is now entirely extinct.

"The American has failed, entirely… as I said she would," said the first to break the silence, without greeting or preamble.

"Yes. It was, perhaps, hasty to press matters." said the second mildly, by way of agreement.

"The fault lay not in the gambit as a whole. The problem was with the trap meant to ensure the safety of our forces - to ward them from intruders until Tineagar could find opportunity to destroy the Tower," said the third figure, turning to retort to the first. "It was overly complicated - a windmill trap better suited for a board than a pub."

The first figure spoke coldly, "The Zwickmühle was flawless, Nell. Each move was a discovery of a new vulnerability, but your piece must be capable of actually _finishing_ the-"

"Enough of your shatranj metaphors!" snapped Nell, the third figure, in response. "Not every situation can be mapped out on a game."

"I am not aware of any affairs that have surpassed the complexity of the game of kings. Everything fits neatly within its bounds, properly understood," calmly replied the first figure, summoning up majesty in its voice. "And chess lays bare the mind of a lesser player. Sixty years ago, a schoolboy's game betrayed his deepest flaws and deepest cunning, and gave us reason to give the Verbo Principis Incantatorum over to the mayfly leader of Britain. You forget such things at your peril, child."

"Indeed, the game is very much a thing of schoolboys in this age - and a thing of Muggles, who pick it to pieces," said Nell, tauntingly, in a manner entirely unbecoming of an ancient witch of eldritch power. But then, it is a mistake to think that the mighty never squabble. "A pity that the rook of our concern does not play, and you must solace yourself with delving into the mind of the American knight."

"This is not helpful," said the second figure. The other two fell silent, though they still glared at each other, expressing harsh stares to the extent that the body language of an inhuman shadow was capable.

The second figure bent over, coiled shadows writhing within the solid lines of its form, and picked up one of the teeth that rolled in gentle waves upon the shore. It studied the canine in its fingers for a long and quiet time, and no one spoke.

Finally, the second figure broke the silence to say, "Magic continues. Worse, for now it rises in strength once more - the curse of scholarship made worse by Muggle philosophies. We are within a hair of destruction. I have no wish to walk companionless on a desolate rock for the eternities - or whatever worse fate that the future may hold."

The other two stood uneasy at the sentiment, wondering if they heard a threat to themselves mingled in that vision of doom.

"We must choose tools," the second figure continued. "Tineagar is no longer in position to be useful. Keep her in Paris. We must choose wisely - somehow the Tower evades our vision, unlike all others."

"Yes," said Nell. "We will expend her some later day. The dozen she turned to her use have already been cleansed."

"The goblins, then?" offered the first figure. "Our coin is beyond price to them - the dream of twenty generations. We have what we need for eyes and ears, but we could purchase the loyalty of their cities wholesale like a klafter of wood."

"There is a readymade tool, I think," said the second figure. "Readied by the Tower himself and only waiting for our hand."

There was a pause, as all three considered the proposal. There was no doubt as to the second figure's meaning.

"Ah, yes," agreed Nell. "And it is pleasingly ironic. It is well to find poetry in a plan."

"A good move, yes," said the first figure, giving his assent.

"We will consider proposals," said the second figure. "Be well."

The three figures exchanged no further words nor farewells, but simply dissipated where they stood. The shadows that had composed their forms twisted and squirmed free, slithering into their own fractal depths like midnight ouroboros.

Tír inna n-Óc endured.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

Hermione Jean Granger was playing football. She was rather good, much to the amusement and astonishment of the two hundred Argentinian witches and wizards who had wished to introduce her to the game. She'd been almost as good in yesterday's Quidditch game, although she had to admit to herself that she simply wasn't that skilled a flier. Her hand-eye coordination, reflexes, and toughness made her an excellent Keeper, though.

_And of course, _she thought, _they're probably not all that interested in beating me, anyhow._

She raced up the pitch, boots digging into the turf, and met the approaching ball with a thunderous kick whose leathern impact echoed off the opposing bleachers. It sailed high through the air, landing in one of the corners on the other end of the field. A full-back (was that right? yes) sprinted towards it, while Hermione's team pressed the attack to try to isolate him from the other defenders. He got the ball to the goalkeeper, though, who cleared it with a fast-moving kick that put it out of threat.

She'd heard cynics say that people want to see a legend die. She wasn't sure if that was true - although it might be right, if only for the same reason that people want to see a failure suddenly redeem themselves. "It's the contrast they like," Kurt Vonnegut had once written. "The order of events doesn't make any difference to them. It's the thrill of the_ fast reverse_" (page 252 in _Sirens of Titan_, her brain automatically supplied).

But even if the cynics were right, here in South America, no one was interested in destroying the mystique of the Goddess and her legend. They just seemed to want to be near her.

A midfielder was coming down the right, and Hermione ran towards him. She grinned as the small crowd called out, cheering indiscriminately. She lifted a hand in acknowledgment, even as she increased her speed.

She hadn't realized that footballers essentially just _ran_ the entire time. An official with the Departamento de Deporte y Juegos Mágicos had given her a tutorial yesterday, but it had been short and conducted through a translator, and Hermione suspected that even the official had only recently learned how the game was played. The tutorial had contained little new information for a Muggleborn, but both she and the official seem to have missed some obvious bits… like the importance of endurance. After an hour, most of the players had been swapped out - they appeared to be a little loose with the rules, since she didn't think that many substitutions were allowed in Muggle games - and even the replacements looked tired.

But Hermione didn't get tired. She just ran and ran and ran.

The midfielder did some sort of trick with his feet, seeming to go one way with the ball while instead kicking it to the side, and Hermione missed it completely, charging past him. He picked up speed to try to escape, dribbling and looking for someone to whom he could pass, but she wheeled around and chased him. The crowd shouted again, and Hermione laughed.

It turns out, sports are fun. How silly.

The game ended with a slight victory for her team, with a final score of 2-1. It was the most politic result, she thought later, toweling off in the locker room. _Preserves everyone's dignity, while still giving them a show._

_Quite a revealing show, actually_, she considered. Was this whole "Día Muggle" nonsense really just a ploy to get her out of her robes and into the football kit's revealing shorts? She'd have to talk to Esther and Susie and get their opinions… and maybe get a look at any pictures from today, too. She had to maintain her pseudo-Elizabethan public image, which necessitated being a bit of a prude.

After folding her towel neatly on a nearby bench and putting on her underthings, Hermione stepped into one of the two outfits she usually wore on these tours. This one consisted of simple black pants and silk shirt beneath a set of leaf-green robes. It suited her complexion well, and the green brought out the colouring of "Harry's" eyes on those occasions when she was with one of his doppelgangers.

_Not that I'll be doing that again, anytime soon_, she thought. For the first time in years, she didn't have any goodwill trips scheduled. After she left here, it was back to Boston, and then… well, she supposed she'd spend some time with her parents, and then she'd spend some time working in the Advancement Agency or Extension Establishment in the Tower. She'd also need to go to Powis, and spend some time with poor Nikitas, who was only gradually adjusting.

Hermione had been worried that the change in identity was going to be too disruptive to the man, who had already been a borderline case for the past month. She hadn't thought that it would send him back into the catatonia in which he'd dwelt for the first fortnight of his freedom, but receiving a new face and surname might have been badly damaging to the fragile sense of self that he'd been developing.

To her delight, Nikitas seemed to embracing his new identity as Nikitas Phocas. He was learning English quickly, and tried a new activity every day. Several times, Tonks had told her yesterday, he had even slept through the night.

"Hermione?" Esther had stepped into the locker room. It was a huge place, designed for an entire busy team of Muggle players and their associated hangers-on; the Returned witch's voice echoed hollowly.

"Here," said Hermione, sitting down on a bench to pull on her stockings. "Just getting dressed."

Esther had been standing guard outside. She approached, walking cautiously and loudly. Hermione smiled to herself as she put on her shoes; Esther wanted to be considerate in case Hermione wasn't yet dressed. She pulled the laces of her shoes tight - awkward, pointed-toe, patent leather affairs - and came around the edge of a bank of lockers to greet the American. "Hullo. Everything all right?"

"Yes," said Esther. "Just wanted to let you know that the dinner tonight will be some sort of special meat feast, according to the 'Asistente Junior' to the Minister."

Esther looked tired. Her hair, a dirty-blonde bob cut as close as a halo, looked greasy. Her eyes had always looked hollowed, but they'd accumulated dark rings beneath them that made them appear nearly sunken. Hermione felt a flush of chagrin… she should send Esther back to Powis for some rest. Left to her own devices, she would wear herself to exhaustion during these sorts of trips, remaining hypervigilant all day. Hermione had thought it would impress Alastor, actually, but the dear man had just gruffly said that Hermione was "well-worth the effort" (although, he'd also added at a later time, Hermione should be careful not to confuse dedication for effectiveness). It had been very sweet - all the more so because Alastor was disguised as a waifish teenage girl at the time.

"Thank you. Ask Susie to speak to him and figure out something, will you?" Hermione said, nodding. She stepped a few paces away and got her bubbler out of her pouch to contact her Returned compatriot. Susie would be adept at finding a solution to the meat problem without offending anyone. It wasn't a good idea to flaunt differences that could seem suspicious, alien, or haughty - a surprising number of people were disturbed by the revelation that the Goddess was vegetarian.

Hermione walked around to a mirror and sink, and examined herself. "Pick," she said to her pouch, and she spent some minutes getting her hair under control. Esther reappeared after a few minutes, offering no comment. The others must have not objected to the change of shifts.

"We're on to Boston tonight, Esther," Hermione said, finishing with her hair. Her mane of chestnut ringlets was tamed, but as lively as always. "I think you and Charlevoix should go back to Powis and see to the Cappadocians - I'm still worried about Nikitas, especially," Hermione said. "Hyori, Jessie, and Simon can see to security in Boston, while you, Charlevoix, and Tonks get things done back home." Urg was off in Ireland, meeting with the city officials of Curd. If the Goddess and the Tower were going to be moving apart on the international stage, Hermione wanted to make sure she had her own lines of communication to important groups.

Esther accepted without complaint or relief, processing the request as calmly as though she'd simply been told the time of day. "Okay." There was a beat, and then she added, hesitantly, "Actually..." She stopped, as Hermione looked over, surprised.

"What is it?" Hermione asked.

"Well… do you think Tonks could see to everything for a couple of days? Charlevoix and I wanted to go look at houses in Godric's Hollow, if it's all right?" Esther bit her lower lip. Both the request and the display of anxiety were unusual.

"Oh, of course!" Hermione said. She smiled hugely, despite her surprise, and stepped towards the other witch to pull her into a hug. It was returned firmly and warmly.

_They're finding themselves… growing up and out,_ she thought, and she felt nothing but pride and joy over how far the Returned had come. There would always be damage, but every turn of season brought a new reason to celebrate their rescue from hell.

Hermione knew the literature about unhealthy idealization supplanting real connections with community and relationships. This was a wonderful turn of events - a healthier and better development than Hermione had ever expected, if she was honest. It meant that there was serious hope that - in the near future - the severely Demented might fully recover from their devastating affliction: a monstrous combination of post-traumatic stress disorder and amnesia.

Hermione pulled away, asking quizzically, "Have you been thinking about this long?"

"No," said Esther, shaking her head and looking away at a featureless wall. She was smiling slightly, though, and evident pleasure was visible on her rosebud lips. "But… it seems time. We've been at Powis for years. We're ready."

Hermione fixed her gaze on Esther's own, though it avoided her, and said with all the feeling she could muster, "I am so happy for you. You'll always, always, always have a home with me… but I am so happy for you."

The world was changing, and it was such a wonderful thing.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

"...and she flushed as pink as her horrid dress," said Harry, already breaking into laughter. He was joined in his laughter by the black box.

The box's voice was not the dry, deep tone of dangerous Professor Quirrell, nor the shrill hiss of the vicious Lord Voldemort. Instead, it was an utterly banal and boring male voice, magically generated and fully articulated in stress and tone, but entirely without character. Harry had come to associate that voice with the new Voldemort - the Voldemort he was happily working on corrupting into accidental goodness. There wasn't much time for it - at best, an hour every couple of days - but Harry could afford to take his time. He thought redeeming the sociopathic monster might take a century or so. There was no rush.

"She must be remembering the fellow from Material Methods that was our first honeypot for temptation," Harry said. Though the jargon was certainly unfamiliar to Voldemort, Harry didn't bother to explain. The colloquialism was obvious, and he could rely on Voldemort to intuit it without needing a plodding walk-through. So few people that could do that, even after all these years!

"She is not known for her insight," said Voldemort. He sounded amused. His voice took on a more serious tone of warning as he said, "But you should not congratulate yourself on playing the game at this level, though, unless you have ensured you are winning on a higher level, as well. You can be sure that Mr. Malfoy is working to put agents that are not absurd and obvious into your organization, even as you work to infiltrate his with the same strategy. You should suspect at least three levels of deception: an obvious agent, a less obvious agent that may succeed on his own terms, and a third agent whose entrance might be effected by the discovery of the second agent. Mr. Malfoy would have learned this effective technique, and will use it, supplemented by other initiatives."

Voldemort didn't say anything about where Draco would have learned that, and neither did Harry. The knowledge lay between them, and it was somewhat awkward.

"Yes," Harry agreed, lightly. "But anything he does in that regard works out all right, I think." He didn't offer any more details. Not to be coy or mysterious, but only because it was a matter of common sense that you never discussed any secret that was seriously important with anyone - even with a voice imprisoned in a box. Even when presented with conundrums like the mysterious Three, Harry didn't indulge himself by asking his caged mastermind villain for advice or analysis. The risk was too great.

Instead, Harry would ask Voldemort's opinion about lesser deceptions or simple logistics that could benefit from a creative and educated mind, such as a clever way to transport huge amounts of soil or water, or how one might improve the wizarding mail service.

_Although really, there's probably no good reason for discussing anything at all with Voldemort… especially not at such a delicate time. He has his books on cassette for entertainment. _Harry glanced at the corner, where a dozen stacked tape players and an auto-play rig were nested on a small platform, surrounded by a thick mass of Lovegood Leaf to preserve them. Mostly history and science, at Voldemort's request. Harry could perhaps have gotten someone to record themselves reading a book on magical theory or something else that might be more in line with what the mandrake-bound mind would prefer, but he had thought that unwise.

Voldemort had spent years bound to a satellite amongst the stars, with only his thoughts for company, though. Harry wasn't sure anyone's mental discipline, even Voldemort's ferocious power of mind, would suffice to keep madness at bay if he was forced to experience that a second time.

"The sliceboxes have been pushed out to nearly a mile," Harry said, changing the subject. "But I'm not sure they can go much further. The process has been pushed to very nearly as far as it can go… all the materials are already absolutely pure and shaped with complete precision, thanks to the Stone, and the enchantment is running up to its limit."

"There are limits to any enchantment - they have suzerainty over their allotted span, but cannot exceed it," said Voldemort, thoughtfully. There was a pause as he considered the problem. "There are other spells discussed in legend, but none that will serve your purposes. They rely on anchors of power that may not be moved, or are themselves only reflections of a greater order to which we no longer have access. The Book of Exses describes a magical theatre that was not bound to this world, for example, and held a multitude safe from all attack or interference while war raged outside. But that knowledge has been lost." There was another pause, and Harry waited quietly, watching the shiny black box as a flicker of reddish energy washed over it. Eventually, Voldemort said, "There is a way it could be done, however. If you moved your manufactory to a place entirely free of interference from outside influence, you may discover that the enchantment could bear a still greater strain."

Harry glanced over at the Lovegood Leaf in the corner, again. "Thank you, Professor. I think I have the means to do that. It shouldn't even be difficult - and it would mean that the sliceboxes would be finished and ready to deploy before launch, if it works."

"Do not assume that your Russian hirelings will perform on schedule. In such circumstances, it is known that last-minute delays usually occur, and can only be solved by a generous payment to a figure of middling competence and no intelligence. And I do not think you would be willing to take the necessary actions to forestall such blackmail, which means you must either wait or swallow your dignity and pay."

Harry shrugged, though he knew that the box couldn't hear his gesture. "It's just money. Well, almost money… it's rubles. I'd pay triple to get that Cabinet where I need it."

"And are you disappointed that you yourself will not be exiting that Cabinet, Mr. Potter? After so many years, and so much labour and annoyance?" Voldemort made no mention of the Vow that forced Harry to remain in the Tower.

"Yes," admitted Harry. "But I think…" He trailed off, as he tried to decide what he thought. "I think," he said, slowly, "that I never would really expected I'd play so much of a part in anything like that. Not really. I always thought it would happen for humans, eventually, but for myself…"

"You were not so optimistic, because you had some modicum of wisdom," said Voldemort.

"Yes," said Harry. He sighed. "And anyway, the future is long. Someday."

"That doesn't stop you from wishing that it was you up there, going through the Van Allen belts four times a day," said Voldemort. "Take my advice, Mr. Potter, and drop such dreams of adventurism. You have never heard or revered the name of Sarah Williams or Penelope Drizkowski, though they braved new frontiers… no, it is the name of Merlin that rests on the lips of wizardkind, and he is not known to have ever even left England."

Harry raised his eyebrows and smiled. "Your comfort is always offered like a command, Professor. Why is that?"

"To teach you, Mr. Potter, although sometimes I despair of the endeavour. All of your aims might have been accomplished in a matter of months, if you had only made diligent use of your resources. Proper motivation sometimes requires a little blood," said Voldemort, and somehow the neutral male voice of the black box managed to convey a frown."

In a way, the entire situation was an example of dangerously convenient wish fulfillment. He could speak and match wits with his old beloved professor - his _intelligent_ professor - and no longer had to worry about uncertainties. Voldemort was insane, badly damaged by nature, nurture, and ritual: it was an established fact. If Voldemort got free, he would slaughter all who opposed him, enslave the rest, and spend eternity amusing himself without concern for the consequences. And he _would_ try to get free. But he had no magic - nor even limbs - and no other companions. So unless Harry let him out of the box, he was secure. A caged tiger.

And Harry had pre-committed not to let Voldemort out of the box, no matter what argument or suasion might present itself. He had once told Voldemort that he actually was _unable_, implying that he meant his Vow would prevent him. He wasn't sure that Voldemort believed this, but it was a credible statement since the Vow did depend on Harry's own subjective judgment. Either way, the monster in the box had not directly pressed the issue since. They had just their conversations, whenever he could spare the time or the sleep.

"I will just muddle through as best I can, unbloodied, then," Harry said. "I'm doing all right so far, I think."

"You would do better if you did not spend so many hours saving the lives of the ocean of idiots that beats a path to your little fortress, here," said Voldemort.

"I can do some good, and my shifts in the clinic often give me time to think. Sleeping patients and bored healers do not disturb my thoughts, after all," Harry said. This was not as true as he'd like… despite the rules, too many staff bothered him there as he moved from bed to bed, asking for directions or assistance or favors.

"Your scruples and soft heart do the world no favors, Mr. Potter," said Voldemort. If the box had lungs, Harry expected that this is where it would sigh. He smiled again.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

Lawrence blinked as the blindfold was removed, looking nervously around. He was in a greenhouse that blazed with the sun, and the glare nearly blinded him. As sight returned, though, he could see dirty shelves and empty clay pots. There were no plants except a few withered vines that climbed the glass walls. It would have looked abandoned, but there were no broken panes among the dozens that arched overhead, quite incongruously.

The person who had removed the blindfold walked around Lawrence with clicking heels until she was visible. She had grey hair in a long and perfect braid, tied with a black bow where it ended at the small of her back, and she was wearing magnificent formal robes. They too were black, with darker patterns of jet tracing a fine filigree along the bodice and waist. She had dark eyes and generous lips. She was looking curiously at him.

"Hello, young man. How are you feeling?" Narcissa Malfoy asked. Lawrence couldn't say why, but though her tone was normal - even kind - and her expression was inoffensively inquisitive, he felt threatened.

"I'm fine, madame," he said, and his voice warbled with his nerves.

"Ah, good. Even though this is just another in a series of tediously temporary places, I'm afraid that these silly precautions are still important," she said, and smiled pleasantly. She clasped her hands together in front of herself. "I hope you don't mind."

"No, madame," he said. He managed to sound a bit more confident.

She smiled, and held out a hand to gesture the way. "My son is down the hall." He wondered where she'd put his wand. He wondered where they were. He wondered why he knew with such complete certainty that Madame Malfoy would be willing to kill him, if it became necessary. Or even convenient.

He walked forward, a bit unsteadily. Leaving the unused greenhouse, they made their way down a dusty hall, and into a well-lit chamber. It had wood paneling and thick Turkish carpets on the floors, and was dominated by an enormous desk to one side. Two men were within, sitting in wing chairs, and it looked for all the world as they they'd been having a casual chat about unimportant things. The normality of the scene was unreal, all things considered.

One of the men rose. He was tall and slim and magnificent of appearance, with short ice-blonde hair and high cheekbones. He smiled graciously, with the air of nothing less than an emperor. "Ah, this must be our guest. A guest with an offer."

"Yes, Draco. Mr. Lawrence Bradwian - you may remember his father was in the Wizengamot, some years ago?" said Narcissa. "A good family. And Lawrence has been a credit to them, putting up with our little game. All this, just to have a little talk." She smiled, and walked to the desk. There was an elegant black cane with a silver head resting on it, and she picked it up.

"Hello, Lawrence," said the blonde man. "My name is Draco Malfoy. I understand you wanted to help me with something?"

"Yes, sir," said Lawrence. He would have gone on, but Draco was already speaking again.

"Good, good… This is Mr. Erasmus. You may have already heard of him, in fact, if you read my newsletter," said Draco, gesturing at a strong-jawed and solidly-built man with russet-red hair, sitting in the corner with his feet up on a divan. "He wouldn't do as he was told in the Tower, researching in one of Harry Potter's silly alphabetical departments - he dared to question authority. And so even though he was one of the most brilliant Unspeakables, they tried to box up his research and dictate the terms of discovery."

"I was within a hair of developing magical machines," said Erasmus, rising from his seat. He was intimidatingly tall. "When you think about what they could have done for us… machines made of air and light! My gears were eddies of wind, my mainspring was no more than a child's spell. But it _offended_ Harry Potter, with his childish infatuation with Muggle methods, and so he confiscated all my work and tried to lock me into a different research plan. I was at the forefront of their work, elevating Muggle principles into-"

Draco made an impatient gesture, and Erasmus cut off his impassioned stream of rapid words. He bowed his head for a fraction of a second with a smile, and then raised his chin magisterially. "Yes, forgive me… I am still shocked at the my persecution and the whole series of events."

Draco walked around to the huge desk, which was topped with intimidatingly perfect and glossy jade. He brushed some parchments aside, and picked one up, examining it. "So then, Lawrence." He looked back over at the boy. "How exactly do you think you can help me?"

For a second time, though, the silver-haired young man didn't give Lawrence a chance to answer. He crumpled up the parchment with one hand, loudly, before straightening again and turning back to face him. Narcissa approached, the cane she'd picked up from the desk held in her hands, and offered it to her son as she came to stand next to him. Draco held it lightly in front of him, and scrutinized Lawrence with narrow eyes.

"That is to say: of what possible use can an agent of the Tower be to me?"


	24. Opfer Müssen Gebracht Werden

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Excerpted from the instructional pamphlet included with every G. Fray &amp; Daughter "Exquisitely Endless Coin-Purse" (14 Galleons, new)

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

"That is to say: of what possible use can an agent of the Tower be to me?" asked Lord Draco Malfoy of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Malfoy, infamous enemy of the ascendant Government, thorn in the side of the mighty Harry Potter, and increasingly powerful rhetorical force behind the Treaty of Independence. As he stared at the teenage boy in front of him, his eyes were narrow and his lips tight with contempt. His ice-blonde hair was almost perfectly styled, but for two stray bits of hair that artfully dipped across his forehead, as though bowing. He held a silver-topped cane lightly - almost carelessly - in his hands.

His mother, the Lady Narcissa, stood at his side - herself a figure of almost as much fame since she suddenly and inexplicably reappeared in British society after more than a decade-long absence (during which she was said to be dead, murdered by former Headmaster Dumbledore). She smiled pleasantly.

Lawrence understood, very suddenly and with absolute completeness, just how stupid he and Annabeth had been to get involved with any of this. To try to frame Sammy Meroveni-Bowles, fool the Tower, and solve a mystery that was clearly _way_ out of their league. To do anything other than report straight to the Headmistress about _everything_.

He tried to answer Draco's question, but somehow his mouth and throat had gone deadly dry. Just inhaling to speak tickled the back of his throat, and he shuddered with a cough for a moment, choking it back into a strangle since he was afraid to even _cough _in front of the Lord and Lady Malfoy.

The pair did nothing but watch, calmly, which was somehow even more terrifying. Mr. Erasmus, the red-haired former Tower researcher, seemed uninterested. He sipped his wine and stared off into space.

"I…" Lawrence struggled to swallow, and then forced himself to continue. "I brought information. Things that they've found out in the Tower." He glanced over at Mr. Erasmus, the man who'd been introduced to him as a former Tower researcher, but Mr. Erasmus appeared more interested in the dram of whiskey that he was swirling around in a stemless glass goblet.

"My dear Lawrence," said Narcissa, smiling. "The cause of freedom has supporters everywhere. I cannot imagine you know anything that we do not."

"You are a… fourth year, I believe." said Draco. He didn't look at Lawrence, instead looking idly at the silver head on the cane in his hands. "Tell me about the astonishing coincidence or whimsical connection that brought you this information."

"Well, sir, a few days ago one of my classmates, Sammy, was hurt. He fell. And I got a Safety Stick to help him - to get him to the Tower, sir. But my friend Annabeth was right there, and she helped me. So we all three went." Lawrence spoke smoothly, now, feeling a little better. This had been rehearsed.

"This sounds rehearsed," said the Lady Narcissa. Lawrence felt his flesh prickle.

"Yes, madame… I practiced in front of a mirror before I went to Whizz Hard Books to try to get in touch with the Honourable," said Lawrence. Even though he'd been prepared for that observation, thanks to the Tower, who had anticipated it, sweat trickled down the small of his back.

"But Annabeth has been angry at the Tower, I think, sir. Well, I know she has. We don't read your newsletter, since it doesn't seem smart to have it delivered to Hogwarts, but we still hear things. About how all the rejuvenated people seem too perfect-looking, like dolls, and how they act differently afterwards… like new people. Like they've been replaced. Annabeth's oma - er, her grandmother, sir - she was just like that. Annabeth was happy about the rejuvenation, at first, but now she feels like she's lost her grandmother. Like it was unnatural."

"Your friend would have preferred her grandmother died, you're saying?" Draco seemed doubtful and amused, a slight smile playing on the edges of his lips.

"No, sir, but they could have just fixed her, without _changing _her," said Lawrence. He continued his story. "And so anyway, Annabeth tried to mess things up a little bit when she went along with us. She had a whole bunch of doxies she'd transfigured down into a rock or something, and-"

"And when she went along with you and your injured classmate, they returned to their native Form and ran amok," said Narcissa, who shook her head, smiling but rueful at the foolishness of children. "More like a prank than anything serious, it seems to me. But I have had word of this; it happened."

"Well, sir, I had this with me, when I was in there and they were questioning her, they had me sit and wait. They put me at a huge table they have there, and told me to be quiet. And the auror looked away for a minute… and I had this," said Lawrence. He reached very, very slowly and carefully into his pocket - making it clear he wasn't going for a wand. Neither of the three adults seemed even slightly concerned. But they did seem interested when he pulled a golden sphere from his pocket. "A Time-Turner."

"And since Harry uses his own every day, they don't ward the Tower against them," said Draco. It wasn't a new realization; he said it as if it were known information.

"So I went back an hour, and there was no one there in the past. I wanted to go look around, but there were just people _everywhere_, they're doing so much stuff there… I ended up being stuck in that room, pretty much. The only place I could go was a little quiet room filled with doors, and even there I didn't want to stay for more than a minute. I just… well, I just grabbed some parchments from a desk there, and ran and hid back under the big table."

"And you waited for the auror to bring your past self into the room, and then when your past self vanished-" said Narcissa, nodding.

"-I pretended as though I was picking up a piece of parchment from the floor. He yelled at me, but he seemed nice enough for an auror, and didn't stun me," finished Lawrence. "So… well, here. This is everything I got."

He reached back into his robes, and pulled out a thick wad of parchments. They had a crease across their surface, from where they'd been folded in two, earlier. He offered them to Lord Malfoy.

Draco didn't take them, and neither did his mother. They both glanced at each other for a moment, as though in silent consultation, before the Lord Malfoy finally said, "I'm not sure they would mean much to me, if I can be appropriately humble about my own limits. Edgar?" He was smooth in tone and neutral in affect.

Mr. Erasmus cleared his throat juicily, rising to his feet. He found a spot for his glass, and approached, rubbing his hands together. They were small and mottled with uneven red-and-white. "Certainly, certainly." He took the documents from Lawrence, and held one corner pinched with one hand, paging through them with the other. "Some of Vernon Wells' work, here… Advancement Agency making great strides, it seems. It'll need some study, but they were already talking about this Muggle testing equipment when I left, and this is a Sanger sequence. They're looking for genetic marks in Veela blood." He paused, then puffed, "Hertability, that was it. Looking for hertability. Very technical. And we knew they were on this, really. Not interesting."

"Oh, it's all just slips of paper, when you get down to it," said Draco, drily. "Anything else that might prove more helpful?"

"This says that Richard Keflo Phillips - squinty fellow, like everything's blurry all the time, a mouse of a man - has worked out how to conjure food. Straight violation of Gamp, though, must be nonsense," mused Mr. Erasmus.

"All right, well, look through it thoroughly, if you wouldn't mind, and let me know," said Draco. "Thank you."

Mr. Erasmus returned to his chair, taking the parchments with him. He muttered quietly, "Marvelous… in such a short time? My, my…"

"Draco, dear, the boy might be telling the truth," said Narcissa Malfoy, folding her hands in front of herself demurely. "But it seems more likely that the Tower sacrificed this information about their research - if any of it is true or useful - willingly. A price of passage. Is that so, young man?"

Lawrence didn't trust himself to speak, and only shook his head in the negative. She turned away from her son to look at him carefully, still smiling, and he felt like he had to pee or throw up (or both). She could kill him. He knew it. She knew that he knew it - in fact, she knew it so well she didn't even bother to appear threatening.

The saving grace was that, even if he hadn't been trying to deceive them, he would _still_ be this scared, so he didn't have to try to hide it.

In the stories about boy heroes like Harry Potter and Reynard Goupil, children could run amok and defeat evil and charge into danger. There were always people waiting to save them if things really went wrong - a kindly civilized centaur, or a nurturing headmaster, or someone else. But children… they weren't _ready_ for this. This was… he was in over his head...

"That's true, Mother," said Draco. He lowered one end of the cane in his hands, so that he held it only by the silver snake-head. He toyed with it, rolling the handle between his palms slowly. "For you see, Mr. Bradwian, we know quite well that the Tower recruited you after your little time-turning adventure in the Records Room - if that indeed happened at all."

"He did, sir," said Lawrence, and his voice cracked on the second word. He didn't even feel embarrassed, only worried that it made him seem like he was lying, as he pressed on: "And I said yes."

Narcissa laughed, and it sounded quite beautiful and light-hearted. It was out of place, like a melodious strain of music on the floor of a slaughterhouse.

"And you propose to bear back my chosen information, then, Lawrence? Is that what you're saying?" asked the Lord Malfoy. There was a knife in his words, hidden like a slip-tip behind the soft tone.

"Yes, sir," said Lawrence, who wished he had never started playing games.

"How interesting," said Draco, who relished them like the air.

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The three shining spheres, each made of polished silver and standing as tall as Harry, were sitting on simple frames of unvarnished wood. On each sphere, there were two large holes at opposite ends, with other apertures a handspan apart along different points. A single low depression, as though someone had pushed their fist gently against the cooling metal, was partway along one side, matched by a similar protrusion on the other.

Harry touched the surface of one of the silver spheres, reverently. He was wearing his gloves, but they were fingerless: he let his fingers rest lightly on the metal, which was cool to the touch.

After a time spent in contemplation, he dragged a rolling metal podium over. It bore a long, folded printout in dot-matrix on continuous stationery. Ugly, but he hadn't been able to get the much newer and nicer inkjet printers to work correctly. Harry figured his time was too valuable; he was just going to put five engineers on retainer for the future. More delegation meant less fun, but he wouldn't miss some of the tasks… trying to fix the tables on the EEG output had been a nightmare.

After consulting the numbers and crudely-drawn graphs on the paper, Harry lifted his wand and touched it to one of the openings on a sphere. He opened a pouch on his belt, and pulled free the loose end of a thick cord of dense hemp rope - source material. Then he concentrated, using the skill that had become as natural as breath.

Diamond, borosilicate glass, and a single layer of graphite in a honeycomb pattern began to sprout from the contact. They were crystals joined into a single unit, formed in contravention of all natural processes: nearly transparent and perfect. It would be an exceptionally good window, fitting deep into wells forged all along the rim of the sphere and anchored in place to an atom's exactness.

He'd considered making the vessels entirely out of such materials (or even some of the "theoretical" materials that he and Hermione had made in their second year, while studying for their O.W.L.s). But frankly, not even the best materials that science knew could match the mystic strength of goblin-forged silver. As best he could tell, it was indestructible by all mundane methods.

There had been one prototype when making the combat gauntlets used by some of the Returned; Podrad the Artificer had turned out a lobster-looking medieval doodad, in the formal and useless style of ages past. It would have worked wonderfully for blocking Muggle crossbow bolts in the days when wizards ruled their unmagical kin by force, but it lacked the vital spots for the chargers. It was a good subject for testing, though - shear stress, compression, penetration (by CO2 laser!), and even a good solid blast of neutrons. That last one had been entrusted to Luna and Cedric and a hand-picked team, and kept quiet, but the results had been marvelous… the goblin-forged silver had only become more dense, without becoming radioactive.

There was probably an outer limit to its mundane durability, but Harry hadn't yet discovered it. The humble Sickle was one of the most amazing things the magical world had ever produced. Wizards, in their bigotry and stupidity, had spent years oppressing goblins, never knowing that staggering power was jingling in their pockets. Harry could only hope that the rapid restoration of their rights in recent years had been done with enough celerity and forthrightness that it repaired some of the damage. Goblins had long memories.

Done.

Harry stepped back to admire his work, and then stepped forward again, to make sure he'd really done it. He tapped on the glass. Nearly transparent and extraordinarily durable… even before enchantment. Once enchanted, it should be impervious.

Testing first, though.

Harry reached over to the dome-shaped depression in the surface of the sphere, and pushed his hand inside of it. He stepped back to observe as a brown band of color emerged from the slight bulge on the other side of the sphere, expanding away from the center of the bulge. It widened as it went, and it left nothing in its wake - the sphere vanished as the band passed. It looked as though the vessel were evaporating; although, when Harry stepped to the side, he could see that the vanishing flat side of the sphere was now the same brown as the enveloping band. The flat cross-section of the vessel grew larger and larger, until it passed the widest part of the sphere, and then it shrank down rapidly.

In a moment, the entire sphere had vanished in the wake of the brownish band, and the flat brown end had revealed itself to be the smooth brown outer surface of a brown leather coin-purse, which had swallowed almost the whole sphere. As the last of the sphere was placed inside of the purse, it dropped to the ground - as though, only just then, it realized that gravity applied.

"A childhood dream come true?" asked Hermione. Harry turned to see her leaning against the doorway, smiling fondly at him. Bouncy brown curls framed her face.

"This is going into _space_," Harry said, as he leaned down and picked up the pouch. It was about the shape and weight of a grapefruit. "I am holding the future in my hand," he marveled.

"Ron Weasley's future, specifically," she said, approaching him. One hand was at her neck, toying with her green-and-gold necklace. "So I hope the testing has been rigorous. I wish I could have helped with that, but there's been a lot to do."

"He'll be fine, and you've contributed more than anyone to this… well, to _everything_ we've done." Harry put the pouch in the center of the wooden frame, and gestured at it with his two hands, fingers tented together and thrusting out - as though beginning the breast-stroke. Obedient to the BSL command, the pouch began disgorging the vessel, which steadily swelled from a silver bowl back into the full sphere. The brown lip of the pouch, stretching over the surface as the ship was called forth, looked like it was extruding the sphere, as if it were some otherworldly child's toy.

Hermione pointed at the next sphere over. "The bathysphere?"

"Well, a bathyscaphe or a submersible… but yes. It'll get a cone-shaped front port. After testing, it will go to the ocean floor… and then, hopefully, right to the bottom of the Challenger Deep, the lowest point on the planet. No one's been down there since the Picards in the sixties. And we'll be able to explore far better and see more. We'll mount viewing mirrors and adjustable spheres with the Perpetual Light Charm on them on the outside, so we'll be able to take full-colour video, and a bunch of other things. We'll even take samples to make portkeys, and we'll leave a Cabinet down there. And there's some things we need to find that were dropped there, as well."

"Okay… but then what is this one? A second spaceship?" Hermione pinged the surface of the third sphere with a fingernail. It had a single slight difference from the first two: there was an additional small recess above the space for the front window.

"Something like that," Harry said. He lifted a hand, and thumped the surface of the first sphere, hard. It had fully re-appeared, and the extendable pouch had been swallowed back up in its own turn within the silver lump on the rear of the ship. The window he'd made seemed to be unaffected. He set his gloved palm on it for a moment. "Say, can you scratch these at all? How do you do on goblin-forged silver?"

"My nails are a nine or so on Mohs. I could probably scratch the window. But goblin silver?" Hermione put her thumbnail against the sphere, and dragged it across. There was no effect. "That's why I have that little knife, so I can trim my nails."

Harry gathered up a handful of printouts and some other parchments, covered in crabbed notes and designs. "Walk with me?"

They exited the room into the larger hall that held the rest of Material Methods, scooting carefully along the wall at one point to avoid a cauldron that was sitting on an extremely hot fire, the magical flames radiating waves of heat. They nodded and smiled to the goblins and wizards that were busily working in the room. Urg the Returned stopped what he was doing - annealing mother-of-pearl to the inside of a charger cartridge - and called out a greeting. The sharp-toothed goblin had been there for a couple of days, sorting out some of the finer points on the chargers.

"Going well, Urg?" asked Hermione. Harry didn't think she knew it, but she always spoke to her Returned in an especially gentle voice. Not as though they were fragile, but as though they just held some special warmth that she was reflecting back at them: a gentle moon to the bright sun of their devotion to her.

"Yes," Urg said, dusting fragments of shiny iridescence from his fingertips. "Hezekiah from the Extension Establishment spent some time here yesterday, and showed us how to stabilize the extended pocket space within each charger. They'll be able to hold much more of whatever we put into them." He had a strong Acklish accent - guttural hoarseness on the velar consonants.

Hermione picked up the charger he'd been working on, and examined it curiously. "What's this for? Air, foam, water, tear gas, grease…?"

"Potions," said Urg. "Cure for Common Poisons, Befuddlement Draught, and any of the others that can be breathed in."

Harry frowned, leaning over to examine Urg's workbench. It was at goblin height, so he had to lean quite a ways over. "I thought they kept going inert inside the charger? When we did a prototype with the Muffling Draught, it just shot out like a jet and didn't function at all."

"The lining," said Hermione. "The mother-of-pearl sustains the potion?"

"And there's a nozzle for the front, to mist it," said Urg. He went back to the workbench, and held up a small nozzle. It looked like a copy in metal of a Muggle spray-bottle nozzle. "The only trick was keeping the Undetectable Extension Charm stable, and I think we've solved that."

"This is wonderful, Urg," Hermione said. The goblin drew himself up very tall, and nodded, the tips of his long ears bobbing with the motion.

"Thank you," he said.

"We'll let you get back to it," said Harry. "But I wonder if you might take a moment, some day next week, to speak to the Science Program students about this? Not specifics… but just the way you approached the problem."

Urg shrugged. "Yes, if you'd like. It's just as the old proverb says..." he said, and accompanied it with a fluent line of Gobbeldegook. He paused, then translated for the humans: "Make it and break it and make it until it stays made."

"I might need to have that engraved on the wall," said Harry, as he and Hermione began walking again. "Thanks."

Urg nodded again, and sat back down to his work. The Tower and the Goddess proceeded out of Material Methods and down the corridor.

"We need to change tactics when it comes to Malfoy," said Harry, as they walked side-by-side down the featureless corridors. They passed the quiet Records Room, the noisy Conjuration Conjunction, and the humid Vision Verge.

"Yes… I know about your tactics so far, Harry. And why you need to change them. It wasn't hard to guess," said Hermione, quietly… a little coldly.

Harry heard her, but was distracted for a moment. He ducked back the way they came, and called into the Vision Verge, where the two researchers of that department were concocting a clear, viscous substance, turning it over in thick folds with a large metal spoon. "Hey! It doesn't matter if that mercury is enchanted, the vapours are still toxic! First degree of caution, please!"

The chagrined researchers, who'd started in surprise at the sudden interruption and command, set the large metal spoon down and got out their wands to begin putting up the precautions. Harry nodded severely.

When he returned to her side, he said, "Yes… it's been necessary for a long time. You came to me after the bombing in Diagon Alley with Tonks, and you both were right, then. I've been waiting because… well, the time wasn't right."

As they entered the meeting room, Hermione closed the door behind them, and glanced around. They were alone.

"No," she said, leaning against the door. "I know. I know you haven't been trying to stop Draco and Narcissa."

Harry controlled his reaction. He'd been expecting this. He limited himself to nodding, thoughtfully, as he walked over to the big table.

She crossed her arms, and went on. "I even understand the reasons behind it. But what I _don't_ understand is why you wouldn't tell me. Why you'd keep it a secret."

He sighed. _I knew this was coming. Another reason to step up more obvious aggressive action… it's becoming apparent that we're not really taking on the Honourable. We move hard to advance our own interests, but barely do anything to restrain the Malfoys._

"I wanted to control the game… I wanted _one_ game, as much as could manage," Harry said. "World politics was too balkanized, with too many separate sets of interests. The States and most of the rest of the Americas are all about advancing their own power and pushing back against the 'British imperialism' that they think has been dominating the world since Merlin. I mean, not that they're wrong, but…" He shrugged. "Europe is a muddle of old feuds, like Cappadocia and Cyprus… the Sawad and Africa splinter into different factions on a regular basis… and the Ten Thousand are- well, I don't actually understand what's going on between the twelve of them."

"Harry James Potter-Evans-Verres," said Hermione, sharply, "if you dare to try to explain the basics of game theory to me, I am going to be rather cross with you. I can see _why _you did it: you wanted to create a conflict game where there are only two sides - and as close to zero-sum as you could get. I'm going to leave aside the arrogance of trying to manipulate world politics on this scale - I mean, honestly, the Cold War version of this left the world with thousands of nuclear bombs! - and just say that you _should have told me_."

Harry faced away from her for a long moment, staring at the glossy wood of the table. He leaned on it, and thought about what to say.

"It's not that I don't trust you. I trust you _implicitly_," he said, still gazing at his own reflection in the table's surface. "You're intuitively good… I have to think through utility functions and weigh the benefits, but you… you carry goodness around like pennies in your pocket. Not that intuition is the best way to get correct utilitarian results, but… I have to admit your record on moral decisions is a lot better than mine. Results matter. So it's not that… it's not trust." He paused. "But you and Draco were… close."

He heard Hermione about to speak behind him, as she drew in a breath.

"That's not what I mean," he said hastily, turning around. Her eyes were bright and fixed on him, as if she could pin him to the floor and wrest out his secrets with the intensity of her scrutiny. "But you spent a lot of time together, after our first year. I know he really helped you, when you couldn't get the- when you had trouble with the Patronus." Her gaze stayed steady. "And you're so open and clear to everyone… it's why you've been so effective at convincing people to join the Treaty for Health and Life."

_But you're terrible at deception. You never had to learn it: you have always won by sheer dint of cleverness and hard work. You've gotten a little better at dissembling and lying as you've become more of a politician, but carrying on a charade where we were working our hardest to crush the Honourable threat? I couldn't risk it. People like Reg Hig would see through you after a single conversation._

But none of that was the right thing to say. You can't convince someone out of their feelings like that… it ended up sounding like you were saying that their feelings were wrong or illegitimate. Even if you succeeded in reasoning someone out of all of their objections, you didn't make them feel better or repair the breach. He'd learned, all too well, that emotions could overwhelm everything else, in the moment. _Once you get past that, and get on with it, you can get back to being rational and_

"No," Hermione said, firmly, as though she knew exactly what he was thinking. "I am not a delicate flower, and I am not an irrational woman overcome by my past and my emotions, and I am not standing on a bloody pedestal while you take the hard decisions on yourself. I'm not-" She paused, seeming to think of something else for a moment, then added, "I'm not a bloody pawn in your game." She walked towards him until she was only a pace away, her jaw rigid with anger. Harry became aware that he'd leaned back against the table away from her, without being conscious of it.

"But after Granville, you were… I mean, you're out there all the time, open to attack and facing the public, and-" he said, starting and restarting his explanations.

Hermione reached to the table next to him, took hold with a few fingers, and casually twisted. The beveled edge of the wood, fully an inch thick, snapped off with a loud cracking noise. She shifted the thick chunk to her palm, and ground it to splinters with a few motions of her hand. Broken pieces of the destroyed fragment of table pattered to the floor like rain.

"And I'm too fragile?" She opened her hand, releasing a scattering of dust. Her voice was bitter, arch contempt underlying every syllable. "You didn't tell me about your proposed plan because you didn't think I'd be able to handle it… because you thought I'd be in a conference in France or Germany or America, and someone would ask why we weren't cracking down on the Honourable, and I'd muff it. Because you don't think of me as a full equal. I'm your equal only on very specific terms… spellcraft and tactics and combat and ethics. But when it comes to the big decisions on strategy? You only trust your own judgment, even after everything. That's the only real reason for this. You're the Dumbledore, _watching over me_, and I'm the child."

"I- I'm… I'm sorry, I-" He felt overwhelmed, and wanted to protest, _No, no, that's not true… we're full partners_, but he was too well-trained in the art of avoiding avoidance, and so he was already critically assessing his own thought processes, and wondering if she was right about all of that, and he had the sickening suspicion that she was. If someone is your full partner, you don't use a grand strategy that leaves them in the dark. That's what you do with subordinates. Which was how he'd been treating her… in this, anyway.

"I'm going to stop Draco from dragging any more people into his nasty little Treaty of Let People Die, don't worry about that," Hermione said, as she jabbed a finger into his chest. She was being gentle, he knew, since it didn't hurt him. Even as she felt betrayed, she was gentle with him. He felt like an unbelievable jackass.

She stalked out of the room, pausing only to say one last thing.

"Voldemort didn't think he had any equals, either."

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_NOTE: I am aware that graphene wasn't yet produced in a real way until years after 1999, but it was observed and studied for many decades before that, and scientists began trying to synthesize it in the seventies._


	25. Press Pass

_I'm not sure what I expected to find in Siegfried's, the latest dining establishment in Diagon Alley. It's widely whispered that Tower money helped put the gilt on the doorknobs, so to speak, but even knowing that, I didn't expect quite the level of opulence one finds at this adventurous new experiment in "Muggle fine dining." It appears that the Man-Who-Was-the-Boy-Who-Lived spared no expense: from your first step to your last bite, Siegfried's is an experience in luxury. Such an investment might simply have been necessary, since "Muggle" and "fine dining" is almost a contradiction in terms. But the Tower, and Mr. Siegfried König, seem to be determined to change that by rubbing their wealth in your face through Siegfried's well-appointed interiors._

_The service was also a study in excellence. The waitstaff were courteous and helpful as they explained the odder aspects of the meal. Novelties in the vocabulary they employed include: "sous vide," "liquid nitrogen," and "emulsifier." The only thing missing from their careful explanation was any information whatsoever; I still have no idea how my food was prepared, except that some manner of Muggle mysticism was involved. I declined a kitchen tour, as it sounded dangerous._

_For all that the decorating was ostentatious and the explanation of the menu was inane, however, I must admit that the food was a revelation of flavor and texture. Even when I didn't understand it, I enjoyed it. I tried a chutney that was complex and rich, but balanced perfectly with quail eggs in a bed of a squash paste. I found that it was…_

-Excerpted from "New 'Muggle Restaurant' Opens Its Doors in Britain," by Sylvia de Kamp in _American Mage._

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

Margaret Bulstrode pushed open the door to Billie's Bobbing Bubbies with some distaste. Just touching the greenish metal handle made her feel dirty, and the scene inside didn't make her feel much better. A corpulent man with pointed ears was standing at the front counter, paging through the thick catalogue of the memories on offer, while the balding woman who was working there was digging under her fingernails with the pointed tip of a decorative glass stopper from a nearby phial. A very pale man with lank grey hair completed the scene, sitting at one of the small tables in the waiting area and eating from a ludicrously large bowl of apples 'n onions - the smell of which was filling the room with cloying sweetness. Everything seemed like it was covered with a thin film of filth.

Yuck.

Margaret didn't say anything to any of the three people, but only continued on straight to the little bobbing rooms. Three of them had closed doors, indicating that they were occupied, but a fourth had a crude sign fixed to it: OUT OF ORDER. She opened it anyway, and closed it behind her.

As promised, there was no Pensieve inside, only a swoop-armed Art Noveau chair with a threadbare cushion, and an empty metal rack where the magical device had once stood. Margaret gathered up the folds of her robe - it was a nice once, too, all fresh with sharp folds - and gingerly sat down on the chair.

She waited almost a full minute. The Goddess was in Knockturn Alley, and Margaret needed to be careful of her. She wasn't doing anything _wrong_, necessarily, but… one could never tell. In fact, Margaret had seen the glamorous villainess herself just ten minutes ago when she was on her way to Billie's: Hermione Granger had been with her gang of thugs, harassing some poor shopkeeper The sighting had so rattled Margaret that she'd been stumbling over her feet the entire rest of the walk here, and very nearly went tumbling in an undignified fashion after tripping on some hidden edge of the road a few minutes later.

But no one else entered the establishment, so it appeared she hadn't been followed.

"Freedom from tyrants, the strength of individuality, and the traditions of wizardkind," she said. She spoke quietly, as though to the air, and braced herself.

The chair trembled underneath her, and then with a violent jerk it flipped itself backwards. It pivoted as though fixed in the air, and her legs flew up and she tumbled over, and she gasped in alarm (every time!). But rather than being deposited on the floor just behind the chair, Margaret was sliding back into a space that hadn't been there before, and in a trice she was dropped gently onto a wooden platform at the end of a long hallway.

She caught her breath and fixed her robes and hair. For some reason the process had a tendency to lodge the back edge of your robe inside the waistband of your pants or knickers, so it paid to take a moment and collect yourself. Margaret suspected that was a subtlety of Draco's devising. He called the password to enter (freedom, strength, traditions) a "priming process," saying that it was good to remind yourself of your goals every time you set to work, and she couldn't help but imagine that it suited his inscrutable purposes to discomfit every visitor's clothing, as well, to prime them for being embarrassed.

Once she was ready, Margaret took a deep breath and walked to the end of the hall, making her face bold and her step even bolder. Confidence could carry you far. She pushed through the door, and stopped just within. Not quite striking a pose, but just an entrance moment.

She needn't have bothered. No Draco, no Narcissa, no Shacklebolt. Just that wretched Muggle-lover Edgar Erasmus, the insufferably priggish auror Gregor Nimue, that American writer whose name Margaret couldn't remember, and some boy she'd never met. No one she really needed to impress…

_No, no… that's Stupid Slytherin thinking. A Silver Slytherin doesn't turn up her nose at any chance to cultivate power, no matter what "sort" of person is their potential ally_, she thought, admonishing herself. It was a weird way of thinking, almost unnatural: an entirely different level. Beyond dominating or controlling people, even beyond fooling them… searching for the utility of each person, regardless of their inferiorities. A pure Slytherin, a true Slytherin in the tradition of the old heirs of that house, they knew that the important thing was to _win_. Everything else was a hobby.

"Hullo," Margaret said to the room.

Nimue didn't bother to rise from his chair, but only glanced up at her and nodded. He was sitting at the long and narrow table that dominated the room, and had seven parchments arrayed in front of him, neatly, so that they were all visible.

Erasmus, who was sitting next to Nimue, was a little more polite. He rose to his feet and inclined his head to her. "Margaret."

The writer - Sylvia de Kamp! that was her name! - was sitting with the boy at the other end of the table, and didn't appear to notice her entrance, keeping her eyes fixed on the young man. The boy had his back to Margaret, and he turned just enough so that she could see his face (handsome, with beautiful skin and a look of misery) before returning his attention to Sylvia. She was a beautiful but cold-looking woman, with no charm to her tight blonde bun or sharp cheekbones.

Margaret glanced around the room. A Floo chimney was along one wall, installed illegally and at great expense on a private network. A stuffed owl resided on the mantle above, next to a jar of Floo Powder. A sofa and a pair of chairs sat before it, all upholstered in the most luxuriously soft bicorn leather. A narrow hole was visible in the ceiling above the chairs, where a simple covered pipe up to the roof could admit owls. All along another wall, to her left and right, were stacked wooden boxes. They must contain the latest edition of _Unbreakable Honour_, waiting for Narcissa to arrange the shipping.

"Edgar," said Margaret, approaching the big, red-haired man. She straightened her posture slightly, putting her shoulders back as she folded her hands into her sleeves. "Is Kingsley here? I brought two more Time-Turners, but I'm only supposed to give them to him."

Erasmus settled back into his seat, shaking his head as he did so. He was in sleeveless potioneer robes. "No, he's not. Two of my people are in the laboratory, and Gem is making Euphoric down the hall." He gestured at the door to the hall, on the other side of the room. "I'm glad he's not here, he'd just be bothering me. Leave the Turners with… oh, with Gregor, or someone." He nodded his head to indicate the Tower auror sitting beside him. "No, he is assisting me… just give those here, then." He held out a large florid hand.

Erasmus was well-built and supposedly brilliant, but couldn't really sort out where he stood on a lot of important things… Muggles, most of all. He talked a good game about the natural order, but he was also always neck-deep into some Muggle book or other (or sometimes two or three books, Muggle and magical both, while he muttered and made notes). Draco might also use science, but you didn't have to worry about _his_ loyalties. Erasmus… well, he just only seemed to care about the bastardized magical research he did with science in his little crypto-alchemical laboratory here.

"No, sorry. I can't do that. No reflection on you, of course, Edgar, but orders are orders," Margaret said, smiling apologetically.

Draco didn't tolerate that sort of rank stupidity. Not that he'd do anything really terrible to her, but he wouldn't ever trust her again if she was so cavalier about such things. And his anger could be terrible… she'd heard rumors of punishments to traitors. The Windowpain Curse, for example. A victim who looked at the black square of a window at night - any window, any night - would be cursed to always see an apparition looking back at him: a pale, wide-eyed face with large and sharp teeth, staring back at him from the darkness. Nothing more… but always that. She couldn't imagine who'd come up with that… what sort of person would even think that way. Just _hearing _about that one had made her afraid to open the curtains at night.

Erasmus shrugged and placed his hand back on the table. Nimue just glanced up and smirked, then returned his gaze to the parchments. Margaret stepped over behind the two, to look between them at the subject of their interest. "Research, Edgar?"

"Looking for a pattern in seeming miscellanea," said Erasmus. "Trying to… verify, shall we say." He glanced over at the miserable-looking boy. The boy didn't look over.

_Report from the Office of the Tower Ombudsman_

_Our office has determined that by far the largest vulnerability, flaw, or weakness in the Tower continues to be the reliance on a single figurehead and leader, Harry Potter-Evans-Verres. While his prestige and reputation remain one of the driving forces behind the popularity of Tower programs and initiatives, in addition to their own dramatic results and merits, he represents what Security Director Alastor Moody said in an interview was a "single point of failure."_

_We also have..._

Margaret, surprised to see an internal memo rather than some obscure line of research, looked to another parchment.

_Memorandum from Councilor Regulus Hig of the Mystical and Benevolent Council of Westphalia_

_Mr. Potter:_

_Hope you are well. Have checked on your question re number of wizards with certain groups here. Numbers attached. Please note they bear out my argument. Many generations of wizards have moved to Britain over past centuries, draining blood and talent from elsewhere. Must be effect, not the other way around, given last years immigration numbers (attached, next sheet). Seems clear that my reasoning stands; in final agreement, Tower will endow chairs at RI and SWI. Partial compensation for generations of drain. Yes? Please reply._

_Re representative: not sure who to trust with proxy these days. Limpel had maybe dozen in her org, or more. A dozen total now have turned up with minds wiped. Would suggest distance collaboration, but understand Tower protocol prevents communication. Will think on it._

_Be well_

_Reg_

The string of numbers that followed was rather beyond her curiosity's scope. She'd never been forced to take Arithmancy, thank Merlin, since she graduated the year before it became mandatory. Millicent wouldn't stop complaining about it, a few years ago.

She glanced over at the next parchment, frowning. What was all this?

_Harry:_

_Quick note on where we are._

_No good results from Hopkirk. She says it's not a problem of obscurity, but that there's just too many results. Three is a number of power. There were three witches who were famous Scottish seers in the sixteenth century, there were three Peverell brothers and three Deathly Hallows, the ancient Greek Herpo found three ways to hide from murder, there were three towers of Atlantis in legend… Too many threes. Hopkirk will keep looking, but says it could mean anything. I don't think you should rely on much insight until we have more details._

_Some descriptions of the transportation magic described by Hermione. Väinämöinen wrote about a horse of flame was used to bear brave warriors to the battlefield. Not sure if any wards can be devised without more details and experimentation. Right now, Tineagar or whoever could pop right into Howard or Hogwarts or Whitehall._

_I'll work more on this, and get back to Tuesday. This feels unfair, though… piled on top of Malfoy and his stupid Honourable. Hope Hermione knocks them off their high horse._

_Cedric_

"The Goddess is after us now… for real? Like, she's done swanning about the world and having people kiss her ring? Is that why she's here?" Margaret asked with rising alarm. She believed in the cause and all that, but she'd already been through one interrogation. She wasn't interested in repeating the experience… Mad-Eye Moody shouting at her and demanding she confess to helping with the Diagon Alley bombing, always acting just crazy enough that you had to wonder if he might _snap_ if you didn't just confess... Margaret shuddered. Thank Merlin for Amycus Carrow, who'd been by her side the entire time. Pervy, but effective.

"She's here?" asked Erasmus, looking up at her again. "In London?" Even Nimue was paying attention to her now, and Sylvia and the boy with whom she was speaking had stopped their conversation and were staring.

"She's here in _Knockturn_," said Margaret. "She was-"

"You little fool," snarled Nimue, leaping to his feet. "You didn't think to say?!"

Erasmus gathered all the parchments up into a bundle, knocking the table violently as he stood up. "Gregor, why didn't you _know_ about this?!" He opened his robes, but before he could stuff the parchments inside, Nimue snatched them away.

"Shut up! They don't tell me everything… not when they're suspicious!" said Nimue in an angry hiss, folding the parchments up and drawing his wand. At the other end of the table, Sylvia had drawn her own, and she and the boy were both standing.

"My research!" cried Erasmus, bustling over to the door to the hall and disappearing. A clatter of beakers soon sounded from that direction, as the worried researcher rushed to save his work.

"But she's not knocking at the door or anything," said Margaret, upset by the reaction. She took a step back, and drew her wand, although she wasn't sure why. "She's just in Knockturn, why do you think-"

"What other bloody reason would the Goddess have for coming to Knockturn but to look for _us?_" demanded Nimue. "It's not even a question - can't believe _you're _even allowed _in here_, what is Draco _thinking?_!" He turned to Sylvia. "Get going! Take Lawrence and finish the damn interview later!"

The American writer was already pulling the boy towards the hearth, almost dragging him by wrist. She whispered her definition, but had time enough to shoot Margaret a look of contempt before the pair were gone in a burst of green flame.

"But I think you're over-reacting," said Margaret helplessly. "How would she even-"

"I was at Azkaban when Hermione Granger broke it like a child's toy!" snapped Nimue, darting over to one of the crates along the wall and snatching up a satchel that was sitting on it. "She has _died and come back_ and she is _not human_. Do you know the _stories _they tell in the DMLE? One of the Weasley idiots saw her put that author fellow - Lockhart - saw her put him through a wall with her bare hands, after she found out some nastiness he'd been up to. A _Hogwarts_ wall!"

"Gilderoy Lockhart? But he's not in any trouble… he just published-" stammered Margaret.

"Why am I even wasting time with you! Stay and risk your neck, it's…" Nimue trailed off as he saw the stuffed owl on the chimney mantle start to flap its wings and hoot. Without another word, the Tower auror leapt to the hearth, and was gone in his own flash of green flame.

"Edgar!" called out Margaret. "The owl!" She didn't wait for a reply, but just concentrated on the three Ds. Let the idiot and those stupid Euphoric-makers fend for themselves.

_Godric's Hollow, _she thought, clearly and with force. Then she tapped herself on the head with the curious wiggle motion of Apparition.

Nothing.

_Oh, Merlin, there's wards. They've locked it down with an Anti-Disapparition Jinx._ She turned to the chimney. That was the way out, no matter what wards… that was it's whole purpose. "Edgar!" she shrieked, running over to the chimney. "She's really _here_!" She snatched a handful of Floo Powder from the jar on the mantel, and threw it into the fire, which turned emerald.

"Borgin and Burkes," she said, and stepped into the flames. She'd go to the other hide-out and escape from there.

Nothing.

"They cut us off!" said Erasmus from behind her. "Oh… oh… what… oh…," he stammered. She turned to see the big wizard charging across the room, awkwardly bundling three big boxes as he went. A fourth box followed him, floating along by flapping transparent silvery wings. "We'll have to use the owl-bolt," he said, peering up at the narrow passage. She stepped out of the flames.

Three other men burst into the room from the same door Erasmus had used. She recognized Geoffrey Gem and his two cronies: the suppliers of local Euphorics. Gem was a rail-thin man with terrible teeth - all snaggly and yellow - and thinning hair. Each of the three potioneers had a smock on and was carrying a clinking crate of phials. "Hold up, Eggy!" called Gem.

Erasmus put down his boxes and pointed his wand at the narrow hole meant for owls. "We're going, Geoff," he said.

There was a loud booming sound, as though someone up in Billie's Bouncing Bubbies had knocked over a heavy piece of furniture.

"Just need to take down the wards, then we can punch out through the roof," said Erasmus, concentrating. His already reddish complexion turned downright scarlet as he worked, and sweat was visible on his brow.

There was another heavy boom from upstairs. Margaret found that she was clutching her wand so tightly that her fingers ached, and forced herself to relax. "Hurry, Edgar!"

"These aren't _supposed _to be easy to take down," he snapped, but he gritted his teeth and squinted as he worked even harder.

"They can't get in here for hours… hours of magic to stop them from burning in," mewled Gem. Margaret almost laughed in his face.

There was a third boom, and this one not only echoed in the room with an accompanying shattering sound as something broke, but the furniture actually shifted. Margaret turned to face the entry door. "That sounded like-"

The center of the door cracked as something hit it from the other side, the wood splitting from top to bottom. One of Gem's assistants dropped a crate, and it hit the ground with a crash of breaking glass. "Oh Merlin," the man said, swaying in place. The rich and sweet smell of shrivelfig filled the room.

There was another crashing sound, and a golden fist appeared, spearing out through the door and sending chips of wood into the air. It opened and seized one side of the broken door, and then thick golden fingers pulled until Margaret heard the metal of hinges squeal and give way. The remains of the door fell apart and open, and the Goddess stepped through. She wore a golden gauntlet on her left hand, and wielded her wand in her right. The metal of the gauntlet glinted brightly, like it was forged from sunlight. It looked very dangerous. She was flanked by a scowling, short witch and a buxom, taller one, both of whom were also wearing golden gauntlets, and a spectacled man who looked a bit scared. A floating Quotes Quill followed the man.

"Edgar," said the Goddess. "We need to talk."


	26. Watchers

CARROW: Sir! Sir! What say you to the fact that our families are snapping in half, sir? I say to you what I have said a thousand times, and that is this: tradition is the glue which holds magical society together! When you burn away tradition, sweeping it off with Muggle machines and cold numbers, then you dissolve the ties which bind magical Britain! I myself have visited the Registrars of Marriages and Unions of Godric's Hollow and Diagon Alley, to name only two, and I am told that they have seen twice as many divorces this year as they saw in 1989! Twice as many! Homes are being broken, children are finding themselves Flooing back and forth on alternate weeks, and happy unions are being destroyed in the wake of all this haphazard and destructive change. So I ask you then, what say you to that?

[scattered applause]

POTTER: Thank you for that question. I do have a response. First, I believe that you show the same care for metaphor as you do for logic. Are we burning, sweeping, or dissolving? And if we're burning, how do we do that with cold numbers? Clear articulation is a sign of clear thought, and vice-versa.

[scattered applause]

CARROW: Mockery is no substitute for an answer! You-

HUGHES: Sir-

CARROW: You-

HUGHES: Sir, please let Mr. Potter finish speaking.

CARROW: You cannot-

HUGHES: Sir, please let-

CARROW: Yes, yes.

POTTER: I do have an answer. But before I give it, let me also point out that two points of data, two numbers, do not make a trend. There might have been unusually few divorces in 1989, for example. Or maybe the divorce rate was even higher in 1979. It's hard to compare anything unless you have more numbers. But that's not-

CARROW: The pleading of a child!

POTTER: But that's not the only flaw in your thinking, Mr. Carrow. There's a hoary old phrase to use at this point: correlation is-

CARROW: Yes, ply us with-

POTTER: Correlation-

CARROW: -your condescension, Mr. Potter.

HUGHES: Sir, I must ask you-

POTTER: Correlation-

HUGHES: Mr. Carrow-

POTTER: -is not causation. That means that there are many sorts of reasons why the divorce rate might have risen over a whole decade. Not every change in the world can be laid at my feet, and-

CARROW: All of this complicated jargon, but the words you need are so simple. Apologies have the virtue of brevity, as well.

HUGHES: Mr. Carrow, sir, I need to ask you to let Mr. Potter speak. Remember your name and the honour of your house, sir. We are here for a civil discussion.

CARROW: Yes.

DE KAMP: Mr.-

CARROW: My honour and that of my house is unbroken, Mr. Hughes.

HUGHES: Mr. Potter, please continue.

POTTER: Then let me just say this, then, Mr. Carrow: the largest flaw - no, the biggest mistake you're making is that you haven't even stopped to ask yourself whether or not this is a bad thing. If it is true, and if it is truly my fault, neither of which points I am willing to concede on the basis of two fiddly numbers out of context-

CARROW: You-

POTTER: -then it is almost certainly the result of money.

CARROW: Money?!

POTTER: Gringott's began issuing loans near the end of 1993, Mr. Carrow, and by 1995 the economy of magical Britain was twice as large.

CARROW: Money is only worth what it can be - and it cannot buy tradition, or happiness, or a family life. If we have made the trade you suggest, then I would say it is a bad bargain… and so much the worse for the shopkeep!

POTTER: You don't understand. The money has given people freedom. Even a small sum of money - the possibility of taking on the responsibility of debt - can be enough to allow someone to change their job or start a new business or even just change their situation. The freedom of money leads to a lot of other disruptive freedoms. Including the freedom to leave their spouse. People who might otherwise have felt trapped-

CARROW: You mudblood piece of-

HUGHES: Mr. Carrow! Mr. Carrow!

POTTER: Mr. Carrow, you seem-

HUGHES: Mr. Carrow, this is-

CARROW: She never-

HUGHES: Mr. Carrow!

CARROW: unintelligible

_-Partial excerpt from the unedited transcript of the second of the Tower Debates on the Future of Magical Britain, as recorded by a certified-impartial Quotes Quill._

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

"I know it's a bit unfair," Hermione Granger said, staring at the five Honourable, "but it certainly does seem that we tend to find you lot in skeevy little places, doing skeevy little things." She glanced pointedly down at the floor, where trickles of golden potion were slowly spreading around under the feet of Margaret Bulstrode, Edgar Erasmus, Geoffrey Gem, and his two assistants. She could smell the shrivelfig. Euphoria Elixir.

"Auror Kwannon?" Hermione called over her shoulder, past where Hyori was standing at the door. The Returned witch stepped aside to admit the auror, without ever taking her eyes or wand or glower off of the captured wizards and witches. Kwannon also had to edge past the gentleman she'd brought with her from the DMLE, Gerald. He was some sort of recorder, taking notes of raids like this one. An ineffectual attempt at holding aurors accountable, Hermione thought. Kwannon looked irritated at the whole production.

_The aurors feel like they should be running the show, first through the door. But there's just no reason to let them take those kind of risks, not when I'm here_, she thought. She glanced over at the auror again. Kwannon was relatively tall, considering her Chinese heritage, with a round face, a scattering of light freckles, and a flat nose. She was one of Alastor's, and was usually in the Tower. For the time being, though, she was here on Harry's behalf, along with four more aurors from the DMLE. Harry had needed someone here, after all - needed some eyes and ears on her Honourable hunt… what would he do with himself otherwise, locked up in that Tower and buried in healing and research, if he couldn't divert himself with some crude manipulations of everyone around him?

Not that manipulation, per se, was her complaint. It was just… Harry never _learned_. After their first year, including the trial and the troll and that terrible time at the end, he never really changed. He just became more… well, Harry-like. He hadn't learned the real lesson she thought he'd take away: if you try to use secret knowledge to manipulate complex situations about which you have incomplete information, then things will get very bad, very quickly. It was very hard for any person to be smart enough to manage that - and it was stupid to try when you had _friends_. It was "nihil supernum," after all, not "nihil par."

_But the stubborn man hadn't learned then, and so Walpurgisnacht had happened, and he _still _hasn't learned, _she thought, bitterly. _Even after the price we paid. _ Hermione almost lifted her hand to touch her neck, but stopped as she realized what she was doing. No time for this sort of dithering.

She brought her thoughts back to the present situation. _Time for me to butt out a bit. I'll make myself her asset, rather than her superior. She's probably better at this than I, anyway._

"Auror Kwannon, this isn't really my sort of thing," she said, turning and smiling at the auror, slightly lifting her shoulders to indicate her ignorance about the next proper thing to do. "You were kind enough to let me pop through here quickly, to keep the miscreants here… maybe you could take the lead from here?"

"Yes, well…" said the auror, looking around the room before focusing back in on the five Honourable. "This is some trouble, here."

Gem noticeably shrank back into himself, seeming almost to fold his thin body over. The witch and wizard that were his assistants took things a little bit more in stride - as though stunned and out of place, with confused expressions. Hermione was fairly sure they were still riding down a dose of Euphoria.

Erasmus, on the other hand, puffed up his chest. He was red in the face, and with the colouring of his hair, he looked humorously similar to a large carrot. "There's no crime in printing and distributing a newsletter, or in conducting private researches, I think. Even in today's Britain!"

Kwannon turned her sharp attention to the researcher. "Mr. Erasmus, you are correct. However, it is illegal to operate a private Floo network, it is illegal to conduct dangerous research within one hundred meters of a residence, and it is extremely illegal to sell Euphoric Elixir without a license."

"All unjust prohibitions!" said Erasmus. He had brilliant blue eyes that were narrowed in indignation. To emphasize his point, he thumped his fist down on the stack of boxes he'd been carrying when Hermione had torn up the entrance hatch and knocked down their door. "Who is the Government to say what I do with a Floo, where I can do my research, or what potions I brew, eh? My research is my research!"

"I recall your research, sir," said Kwannon, her mouth tight.

The former Tower researcher had been studying the construction of magical machines, Hermione recalled, before he had been fired, his research confiscated, and key memories Obliviated. Erasmus had ignored safety concerns entirely, and had insisted on just bullying through and continuing to build his wind-machines. They used fluid dynamics: tight swirls of air spinning as gears, fed by small warming columns of heat from below; flywheels of pressurized zones to store and transfer energy; and shifts between small turbulent flows and laminar flows as switches.

The machines had been brilliant - Erasmus was brilliant - but they had also been maddeningly dangerous. One _Ventus_ could power them for days, and the _very first_ thing they were designed to do was consume waste matter of _any type_ and incinerate it for more power. If Erasmus had moved his investigations of Muggle science out of engineering and aerodynamics, and into something like computer programming… the danger had been unbelievable, even by magical standards. He was almost a cartoonish figure: the mad scientist with no concern for consequences. Harry had not only been apoplectic, he'd been outright offended.

Hermione supposed that the setbacks they'd given Erasmus, including the changes to his memory, were probably enough to ensure everyone's safety. But to see him right back at it, only now without any supervision… they'd need to do something, somehow. It needed thought. For now, at least, it looked like Erasmus wouldn't be a danger for a while.

"In the States, anyone can set up a Floo. It's not right that there's only one Floo Network in Britain," offered Margaret Bulstrode. She was a beautiful young woman, but clearly quite out of her depth. Hermione knew Margaret, slightly - she'd been several years ahead at Hogwarts, and the aurors in charge of investigating the Diagon bombing had brought her before the Wizengamot for examination on the basis of an informant's accusations. Nothing had come of it.

"I wouldn't know about that, I'm afraid," said Kwannon, her voice hard. "But I do know it's illegal here, just like Faux Floo is illegal. Is that the genuine two-Sickles-a-scoop on your mantel?"

"Yes," said Erasmus, puffing out his cheeks.

"Mm," said Kwannon, noncommittally. She walked around the room, looking sharply into corners and at everything around. "What else you have here, eh? Come on, Gerald." She headed through the other door, into a hallway or another room. Gerald followed her with his floating parchment and Quotes Quill, looking nervous.

"This is a private facility," called out the weasely Gem, hugging himself. He'd put down the crate he'd been holding. "You have no call to go snooping…" He trailed off, uneasily. His fear of the Goddess and Hermione's supernatural air of innocence were probably confusing him. That sometimes happened.

"She's an auror," said Hermione. "The Tower and I have proper search warrants and _habeas corpus_ and seizure rules planned out, but we haven't gotten there yet. For now, you're stuck with the traditional system, as we found it. Seems to mostly date back to the eighteenth century, with some modern bits like Hit Wizards stuck on. But tradition is best, after all… isn't that right?"

_Need to taunt as a distraction… best not take it too far, though_. Susie seemed to think it was funny, though, smirking as she walked to the crates of copies of _Unbreakable Honour_ and sat on one. " 'Good for thee, but not for me,' as the saying goes, love." said the Returned.

Erasmus huffed again. "Under any system of justice, Muggle or magical, this is out of order."

Hermione approached him. "How so? I'd be interested to hear you defend this, Edgar." She gestured at the crate of broken potion, and clasped her hands in front of herself. "Did your research ever lead you to encounter the notion of 'wireheading,' I wonder?"

"You were famous for fighting bullies, back when you were at Hogwarts," said Margaret, suddenly and loudly. "S.P.H.E.W and all that. But now you _are_ a bully."

_Ah, that'll do nicely._ Hermione smiled again, and turned to face Bulstrode. She approached very close, and stared at the woman. She was a little taller than Margaret, and she knew she was quite intimidating. She let the smile fade from her face, and lifted a finger. She poked it into Margaret's chest, and said - coldly, now - "Don't hide behind loose categorizations. Say what you mean. You're being persecuted, are you?" She plucked at Margaret's robe at the shoulder, and then again at one of the pockets, contemptuously and dismissively… as though the woman were a bit of lint. "You and all of Draco's loathsome death-worshippers, piling all your prejudices and ignorance up into a single lot." She walked around Margaret as she spoke, and took the opportunity to surreptitiously drop a button - one she'd removed from Margaret's pocket, and palmed - into her own robes.

"I'll say what I mean, all right," replied Margaret. Her voice barely shook. "You lot have taken over. And you've done a lot of good things. But there's a natural order to the world, and you've broken it. You've… you've done some of the darkest of rituals. It's the only way things even make sense. And you're eating up all the rest of the world, state by state. If you keep going, the world won't even be recognizable… no traditions left, no people thinking their own thoughts in their own ways… you want everyone to be the same, like the porcelain dolls that come out of the Tower. 'Rejuvenation'... it's just control and replacement!"

"Draco has always had a silver tongue," said Hermione, scornfully. _She's just parroting back what she hears. This was the danger of letting things go this way, Harry… they're cementing in these ideas. It's hard enough to get people on our side, but to win over those who actually _hate_ us this much?_

_You knew I'd never agree with this plan. That I'd point out it was extravagant and risky and impractical. The slow victory is better than the fast loss, Harry._

But Harry wasn't here, and there was no point venting now. Bend before the storm, and surprise her.

"You might be right in some ways, Ms. Bulstrode," she said, walking away. She saw Hyori raise an eyebrow from her position by the entrance, and flashed a quick smile at the Returned. Hermione turned back around to face the Honourable. "It's dangerous to discard a lot of traditions. Many of them survive from century to century because they serve an important purpose. Memetic survival: mutation, variation, and evolution. 'Unconscious memes have ensured their own survival by virtue of the same qualities of ruthlessness that successful genes display,' " she quoted. (_The Selfish Gene_ by Richard Dawkins, page 198, her brain automatically supplied). "It's something we should be more careful about, and we want to avoid when we can. Was there any specific tradition that you are unhappy about losing?"

Margaret was silent for a long moment. Hermione folded her arms, and waited patiently. It wasn't even an act: she was honestly interested to hear the answer.

"How about Quidditch?" said Margaret, after a while. "The Tower wants to get rid of that."

"Well, he did want to change it, yes," Hermione said. "Not get rid of it. Harry isn't much for sports in general, I'm afraid, and I don't think he ever quite understood it - especially the snitch. Muggles have a similar sort of thing called test cricket, but I doubt Harry has ever played or even watched it."

"They sacked all the Quidditch regulators!" said Margaret in reply, strength coming into her voice. "Closed down the whole games section of the Ministry!"

"That wasn't the Tower, that was a decision by Minister Fudge," said Hermione. But when Margaret and Erasmus gave her a look, she smiled slightly. "But yes, he supported it. As I recall, though, Quidditch is doing just fine… better than ever, in fact, now that it's being run privately. Most of the same people working for it, I think."

Kwannon returned at that moment, Gerald in tow, shaking her head. "Fairly plain about the research being done here, and the Euphoria being brewed. We'll get some people in here to collect all this, but I think you should all try to think of a good solicitor, if you know one." She headed up to the entrance, and waved in the aurors who were standing idle in the corridor. "Come on through. Back rooms there… bag up the lot. Leave the experiments inside the circles until we can have someone bring them out with precautions."

"I imagine they know some people who can help," said Susie.

"Malfoy," said Hyori from behind Hermione, scornfully.

"Be careful with my research," said Erasmus, urgently. He was turning red again with anxiety. "I'm within a hair of a working Zimara machine!"

_Perpetual motion? Maybe I can stay and take a look,_ thought Hermione.

"Any way we can help, Hedley?" she asked, hopefully. "We can stick around if you would like some assistance?"

"Thank you, but I think we have it in hand," said Kwannon. Hermione probably should have let her go first; there would have been relatively little danger. Lesson learned.

"Then I suppose we do have things we can get up to. Thank you," said Hermione. She nodded at her Returned, and they all headed for the exit.

It was true, after all. They had some parchments to read. As they made their way out, Hermione reached into her robe and picked up the Everlasting Eye. When she'd seen Bulstrode out on the streets of Knockturn Alley, it had been easy enough to step aside, slip on the Cloak of Invisibility, and sprint on around ahead of her. She'd dropped the listening device into Margaret's pocket after tripping her with an invisible foot.

"Let's find out who escaped our raid, shall we?" she asked the two Returned witches. Susie smiled.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_We are faced, right from the beginning, with a difficult task. It is a task so immense that most wizards never even notice it, any more than they notice their eyelids. Indeed, when I began this chapter, I sought out dozens of the most learned wizards in Britain, only to discover that no more than one or two had ever given any thought to the problem. Madame Hopkirk of the Department of Mysteries herself was able only to point me to three or four dusty volumes of consideration - none of which I could read (the obstacle was the same one previously encountered, dear reader, when I attempted to research the history of Hogwarts: no consideration is given to those for whom the Interdict is a forever-insuperable obstacle)._

_Subsequent conversations will allow us to piece together some basic ideas, if they must be rudimentary of necessity. So then: what is magic? The physical realization of an inner spirit? The action of a daemon working on one's behalf? A demand made on some hidden set of rules to the universe? We set our education and wits to the task of explaining many things we might see in magic:_

_A large proportion of magical effects conform, depend, or otherwise interact with the emotions, expectations, wishes, or willpower of the caster._

_Magic seems to operate almost entirely on a human scale, even including wholly subjective aspects of modern life._

_The linguistic components of spells are all well-suited to the human tongue, and most even seem to derive from Latin or Greek roots. The history of magic begins in Greece, as Madame Bagshot has instructed us, but was that necessity or coincidence?_

_Magically-created matter is mundane matter in most respects._

_Magic interferes with Muggle machines in some unknown way, yet to be discovered or classified, and thus seems inherently inimical to machinery in a spiritual sense._

_The ability of humans to do magic varies, with most people unable to do any magic at all, others having only the very tiny magic of a Squib, and some having enough magic to cast spells. Many plants and animals also possess magic where others do not._

_Magic is hereditary, and so must be a trait like hair color or height that is passed from parent to child._

_It is widely known that magic has been decreasing over time, which means that it must be going somewhere._

_When these phenomena are fully internalized and realized, we may thus see that the daemon theory of which we spoke earlier must be the correct one. It explains all of the above conditions, as the daemons consume magic to live, make war on rival machines, live within the body to touch upon the mind, and are passed from parent to child like a Sallowfax infection._

\- excerpted from Chapter Three of _A Squib's-Eye View_, by A. F. Leiding

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_It is abundantly clear that Mr. Leiding is not only a Squib, but also a fool. We may pity him for his limitations in magic, but we should pity him even more for his limitations in reasoning._

_It is impossible to understand the true nature of magic. Atlantis' fall put the source of that knowledge out of time and out of our reach. This may be the ultimate tragedy of this book: left with no purpose, what else is Mr. Leiding to do, but construct fantasies and try to know the unknowable?_

-excerpted from _American Mage_'s review of _A Squib's-Eye View_


	27. Bonus: Digitzations

_NOTE: H__ere are some looks at the stories-that-might-have-been... if you took the offstage, ignored, or unsung aspects and let them run the show._

_Spoilers ahead for:_

Toy Story

_L. Ron Hubbards _Battlefield Earth

_Lois Lowry's _The Giver

The Incredibles

_Astrid Lindgren's _Pippi Longstocking

_Brian Jacques' _Redwall

_Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman's _Dragonlance

Star Wars

_Eliezer Yudkowsky's _Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality

* * *

**T0Y ST0RY**

Sid spent three months in the seclusion ward of the hospital. Even after he was released, he had to go speak to Mr. Berndham twice a week in the counselor's office at school, and his social worker dropped by at least once a month. Everyone was keeping an eye on him… even his mom. She'd only ever actually talked to him about it once. "Sid, honey," she'd said to him abruptly one night, as he chewed on a slice of Pizza Planet double-cheese. "Do you want to tell me… about anything? About what you… saw?"

He'd chewed on his pizza for so long that it was churned into spit-soaked mush, and hadn't said a word. He knew better, now. Hannah had smiled at him vacantly, not really understanding. She was little; almost a baby, really.

He knew so many things. He knew about the toys. He knew about adults. And he knew about the importance of silence.

He chewed and chewed and said nothing, and eventually she'd gone to join Dad on the couch with some beers. Hannah said something brightly and toddled off, as well. Sid swallowed, and it went down like a lump of iron. Funny, that you could chew on something for so long and still have it hurt on the way down.

Sid waited. He waited month after month, doing everything he was asked to do. He even knew enough to keep on going to the skateboard park once a week or so. Mom would go with him and sit nearby, and he'd push himself around and do half-hearted grinds on low edges.

Eventually, he was allowed to close his bedroom door again. It took almost a year. It was a grim room, these days… the paint was scorched in one corner where a cherry bomb had just sizzled and burned instead of exploding. There was a melted patch of carpet there, too. And all his shelves were bare, scuffed wood. No toys.

No toys but one.

It was a bright yellow squeeze ball, with a face on it and simple nubs for arms. When you crushed it in your hand, the eyes bulged out comically. He wedged it under a drawer when he wasn't playing with it.

Here is how he played:

"Your name is Boo-boo. Your name is Boo-boo. You are my special friend. You are my special friend. You are my only friend. You are my only friend," he crooned. He spoke to it softly, even though his eyes were hard. "It's just you and me. You and me. You and me."

"I know," he whispered, so quietly that only Boo-boo could hear. "I know you're alive. I know toys are alive. I know you're alive. I am the only one who knows. The only one in the whole world. I'm the only one."

Every night, until he fell asleep, he cradled the toy and whispered to it. Endlessly. Constantly. Forever. Until finally, one night just like any other night, Boo-boo moved in his hand. Just a little, but Sid was sure. It hadn't been another false hope or trick of his mind.

He redoubled his efforts. It took nearly a year, and there were nights when he would spend an hour in the bathroom, sobbing and hitting himself in the head with a balled-up fist… but he always kept going. And finally, almost a year later, Boo-boo started talking back.

The toy had a squeaky little voice, but it repeated back what Sid said. It talked to him. He told it about his problems, and about the world that it had never seen. About how he was special, and the only one who could hear the toys. He told Boo-boo about the world to come.

And then Sid got other toys. They let him, and they let him stop going to see Mr. Berndham and the social worker stopped coming by and Mom started to get more worried about the way Hannah was dressing than anything Sid did anymore.

"Boo-boo is your leader. He is in charge. Boo-boo is your leader. He is special. I am special. You are special. We are special."

They were mostly action figures with a lot of moveable joints. Hard plastic, with hands that could hold things. Toys that could do things. Move things. Hurt things.

"Boo-boo is your leader. We are special. We will change things. We will change the world. You are special. I am special. We are special."

Toys don't sleep, he'd figured out. They don't eat or drink. They don't breathe. They didn't get tired. When Boo-boo put the figures through drills, they were whatever he wanted them to be. And he wanted them to be perfect.

"Boo-boo is your leader. He speaks my words. I am special. I am the only one. You are special, because you are here. We are special. I love you. I love you. I love you."

A hundred. A thousand. So many that he stored them in crates in the closet. They didn't mind. They would do things for him. Boo-boo was his eyes and ears while he slept or went to school. They got things. Scissors. Knives. Even better things.

"Boo-boo is your leader. We will change things. We will change the world. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. Do you love me?"

"Do you love me?" he asked, in a hushed and solemn voice, and a plastic legion whispered back, "We love you."

"Then go, then," said Sid, and threw open the door. "Find more. Teach them my words. Teach them as I have taught you. Go then. I love you. Go then. I love you."

"Conquer in my name," said Sid, and his eyes flashed balefully.

* * *

**B4TTL3F13LD 34RTH**

"MacTyler, we're being played for fools," said Angus. He scrutinized the breathe-gas bottle and frowned. "Think about the scenario… think about how everything comes to a point here. Improbably so."

Johnnie Goodboy Tyler did stop and think, for he was a man of inquiry as well as a man of action. "The Psychlos have a death-grip on the entire galaxy, as the only ones with teleportation. They possess the single most valuable technology. At the same time, they're cartoonishly evil… they have the sort of sadism that would make you think they'd all been purposefully brain-damaged, or something just as silly. But they're also incredibly vulnerable, since the gas that they breathe seems to explode violently when exposed to any form of particle radiation," he said, working it through. "That means that if you subvert any knowledgeable Psychlo - even by sheer luck, getting it right only _once_ \- you could seize control of the most powerful technological advantage in existence, annihilating them in the process by teleporting in simple uranium-based bombs. And you wouldn't even have to feel bad about it, since they're all evil."

Angus pointed at the breathe-gas container. "But we have little evidence for any of that. All we've really seen is a handful of Psychlos and these Chinko record discs - and again, aren't _those_ convenient?" His Scottish accent was thickened by alarm and suspicion.

"You're right, Angus," said Johnnie. Almost by instinct, his kill-club swung up in his hand, and he hefted the reassuring weight of the kenning in his grip. "We're being set up… trained with propaganda and supplied with everything we'd need to start a war. All these machines with fantastic capabilities - dispersing single molecule sprays or hovering while mining drills are deployed - and all of them easily converted to military use."

Johnnie turned to face the horizon. "We've been groomed to be weapons, and taught about a convenient and evil target, and given every resource. We're being set up to take someone out."

"But then… who is behind this? Who is trying to turn mankind - och, the handful of us that exist! - into a weapon against the Psychlos… or whoever's really on the other end of these coordinates?" Angus looked up, nervously, as though they were being watched.

Around the corner, out of sight, Chrissie scowled and narrowed her eyes. These two would have to go. A shame about the wasted time, but once Johnnie and Angus were disposed of, she'd just set up the "Psychlo" mining site again. If she and the Chinkos wanted to take control, they needed a patsy to lead the human attacks… she'd thought Johnnie would be perfect. He trusted her, never even wondering what she did during the long periods he would be away from the village - when she had met her allies and planned to harness the happy violence of what remained of her species. But there were plenty of bold and reckless young men in the world, willing to wage war without ever stopping to think. She could replace him.

* * *

**TH3 G1V3R**

"So wait… our community's Elders make our decisions, guided by your wisdom?"

"Yes, Jonas. The wisdom from the memories," said the Giver. The aged man seemed burdened by the weight of the entire community, which rested on his hunched shoulders. "Once, the Committee of Elders sought my advice about the rate of births. Some citizens had petitioned to ask for each family to be allowed a third child. They wanted each Birthmother to be assigned four births instead of three, so the population would increase and more Labourers would be available."

"That sounds fun," said Jonas. "And it makes sense. So you used your memories?"

"Yes," said the Giver. "And the strongest memory that came to me was one of hunger. It came from many generations back. _Centuries_ back. The population had gotten so big that hunger was everywhere. Excruciating hunger and starvation. It was followed by warfare."

"I see," said the young Receiver. He paused. "So you told them to first assess whether or not current food stores were sufficient, and to determine whether or not the Farmers could expand operations to accommodate more people?"

"They don't want to hear about details of numbers or that sort of thing. They just seek the advice. I simply advised them against increasing the population."

"Oh." This time, an even longer pause. Then Jonas asked, in a small voice that was almost a whisper: "I'm allowed to be rude, right?"

"Yes, Jonas," said the kindly old man. "There can be no rudeness between us, and no apologies."

"Then sir, I have to say that it doesn't seem as though you're using your power very wisely. I mean, you've told me about how important it is that we not try to advance our society that much, but my friend Benjamin was praised for inventing new scientific equipment for the Rehabilitation Center. Surely you must have some memories from someone who worked in medicine, back in the old days. We don't have to copy the way they do things a lot, but why don't we-"

"Jonas," said the Giver, his hoarse voice sharper than usual. "There are limits to what we can do to change our world. We must accept our place."

But the boy hadn't even heard him, but had plunged on, describing gaps in their knowledge that memories from the past might be able to fill… describing the ways lives could be saved or improved by details and specifics… describing all the ways that the memories could be used.

Finally, the Giver spoke again, interrupting Jonas, his voice kind once more. "You might be right, Jonas. We'll try those things… all of them and more. But first, I think there's something important you need to do… I think you need to save Gabriel. Yes, that's it. You must take him and go away. Far away. Into the woods."

"But, sir-"

"Here, take this food.. Okay now, off with you."

* * *

**TH3 1NCR3D1BL3S**

Mr. Incredible moaned, angrily. Bitterly, he demanded of the hovering little man, "You mean you killed off real heroes so that you could _pretend _to be one?"

Syndrome smirked, and his pompadour bobbed with the slight motion of his head. It was visible even in the darkness. "Oh, I'm real. Real enough to defeat you! And I did it without your precious gifts, your oh-so-special powers." His voice was mocking. "I'll give them heroics. I'll give them the most spectacular heroics the world has ever seen! And when I'm old and I've had my fun, I'll sell my inventions so that _everyone _can have powers." His voice rose in excitement. "_Everyone_ can be super!" He turned again, to face the red-garbed hero, and spoke his last words in a portentous tone.

"And when everyone's super… no one will be."

"Oh, okay then. That sounds good. Wait, let me think," said Mr. Incredible. He'd always been creative but never… well, never intellectual. So it took him a moment. Syndrome stood, surprised, his mouth half-open as a ready retort was smothered by this unexpected turn of events.

Elastigirl was even more surprised, but her reply was lost when Dash just outright yelped, "What?! Dad?! Don't give up!"

Mr. Incredible turned his head to his son, and snapped, "Dash! Quiet!" He paused. "Please!" he added, glancing apologetically at his wife.

Everyone was silent for a few beats, and the only sound was the buzzing of the bracelets that had trapped the Incredibles with "zero-point energy." Finally, just as Elastigirl and Violet were both clearing their throats insistently, Mr. Incredible heaved a sigh and addressed Syndrome again. "That sounds good, but we're going to want something in return."

Syndrome, Elastigirl, Violet, and Dash all simultaneously replied in a confusion of demands and replies and simple shrieks.

"Quiet!" bellowed Mr. Incredible, putting a super-powered diaphragm and unbreachably strong lungs to use. In the heavy silence that followed, he spoke to Syndrome. "I have a deal for you."

Syndrome whirled around, then looked up, then looked down. He flipped open a control panel on his wrist and paged through menus, looking at sensors and read-outs. Finally, he looked up again. "I don't… _see_ any attack about to happen."

"No, this isn't one of those things… I don't have a plan or anything. Well, I do, but it's just to let you win," said Mr. Incredible. He could feel Elastigirl's anger from here. "Listen… this kind of power could change the world. It could… if everyone could fly, and we could generate that kind of energy, and… I mean, I'm not a scientist. Helen, Vi… think about what it would do for the world. Think of just what we could do with the power sources. It takes a ton of energy to float people around like that, and it's coming from his tiny little batteries. Think about what it will mean for industry and- and- and space travel!"

The silence held, and he knew they were thinking it through, now. It made sense that he had been the one to see it. He was a tactician and leader… he was creative. Not the quickest in the room, usually, but he could think around the blind corners.

"You know how this goes," said Mr. Incredible, and now he locked his eyes on Syndrome's. His eyes had the grim intensity of a hero. It wasn't an expression you could learn or imitate. It was forged in battle and quenched in the blood of friends fallen in noble causes. He held the villain's eyes.

"You know that we are the heroes. We're the _family_ of heroes, and you're off to do your insane plan. A way-too-complicated plan, by the way. You have all these powers… why build the unstoppable robot? Just go be a hero… go do the thing you always wanted to do." He cut off any reply by raising his voice slightly. "But if you give up your inventions to the world… in a way that I can know it will really happen, and you won't change your mind… I'll agree. I'll die for that."

He raised his voice again. "_Not_ my family. Not them. You need them. They won't spoil our deal and tell the world, since they know what I'd be dying for. They won't risk losing that technology. But you send a locked archive of that information to the New York City D.A.'s office right now, and you can have my life… and you'll get a rogue's gallery, to boot. Brilliant and bendable, quick and brave, insightful and powerful."

Syndrome tilted his head back. The surprise on his face had been overtaken by a mocking smile, which had in turn been replaced by frank uncertainty. "But if-"

Mr. Incredible didn't give him the chance to continue, as he lunged forward. He wrenched his right arm forward, straining against the energy. He strained it forward, and every inch was twice as impossible as the next, but he doubled his effort and doubled it again, and forced his bound fist forward. Because it wasn't for him, and it wasn't for his wife, and it wasn't even for his whole family, but it was for _the world_, and he _pushed_ until his arm was straight out and he felt something tear in his shoulder and his gut, and all he could see was red, but he strained out the words through his clenched teeth: "That's. What. You. Get."

And there was another pause, and then Bob Parr shoved his hand forward an impossible inch more, an _incredible_ inch more, and his arm burst free of its restraints with an electric sizzle, and there was blood in his mouth and he hurt everywhere but he snarled anyway - snarled the words, "_Or else._"

Mr. Incredible couldn't hear anything over the roaring in his ears, black galaxies were swirling in front of his eyes, but he could still see Syndrome back away, face pale, agreeing to the deal.

* * *

**P1PP1 L0NGST0CK1NG**

"It all became clear to me after speaking to Mr. Nilsson," said Pippi. Her long braids, stiffened with bear grease until they jutted from her head, bobbed like the grand diadem of an empress. She gestured at the monkey chained to the porch of Villa Villekulla. It was mangy and red-eyed with disease, and the fez that had been lashed to its skull was little more than a lump of reddish rags by now. The policemen obediently looked at the "talking monkey," but it only hissed at them.

"He explained to me," The nine-year-old continued, "that the authorities would never stop trying to take me away to that lousy orphanage. If I wanted to be left in peace, there was really no alternative but to take over. If you wildly extrapolate the small set of facts with which we began, then really it makes sense."

"Pippi!" called out the cheerful singsong of Tommy Settigren, as he appeared around the corner. His short blonde hair was matted with filth almost as thickly as the hatchet in his hand was thick with gore. He'd stopped bathing months ago, in obedience to the _frigörelse _theology of the Longstocking. "We caught that dratted mayor, Pippi!"

The redheaded titan turned and grinned. "Well done, Tommy! Here you go!" She threw a Spanish doubloon to the other child, who snatched it out of the air. He bit it - not really because he doubted its authenticity, but because that's what the Longstocking had taught was the proper thing. "Bring him around," commanded Pippi.

Tommy disappeared, but soon returned at the head of a gang of other children, mostly the liberated orphans. His sister Annika was with him, and she and the other children all helped drag the bound form of the mayor. Pippi yelped in glee, and leapt down to meet them. The policemen, dispirited at the abrupt change of regime, slumped away from the sudden movement in animal fear.

The mayor mewed weakly in fear as she hoisted him into the air. Pippilotta Delicatessa Windowshade Mackrelmind Ephraim's Daughter Longstocking lifted him with one hand effortlessly, and told him with a wide grin, "I told you that the oppression of the masses could not continue forever. I'll always come out on top."

She threw him aside, and pointed a bold finger down the street. "Onward!"

* * *

**R3DW4LL**

"Patience, you young scalliwag," chided the ancient mouse Methuselah. "We have found this riddle, and I believe it to be the key to locating the fabled sword of Martin the Warrior."

"A riddle!" said Matthias, finishing the wedge of cheese he'd been enjoying. He drank a long draught of October ale, swiping his whiskers on his sleeve. "If we solve it, then we can find the sword and chase off Cluny and his horde!"

"Indeed," said Methuselah, twitching his nose from the library's dust. The old abbey recorder settled down to read the scroll.

Who says that I am dead

Knows naught at all

You who seek my blade

To find within Redwall

Should not ponder riddles

Instead, heed my call:

Launch flanking attacks

from outside of the wall

The two mice sat in silence for a minute. After a while, Matthias said, "That does make rather a lot of sense, doesn't it?"

Methuselah nodded slowly.

"Well, we do know that there's a lot of shrews in Mossflower. We can probably offer them some pasties and pies and things, and they'll fight for us. After all, we're a settled agrarian group, with the stability to offer them things that a nomadic rat horde never could," continued the young mouse.

Methuselah nodded again, but lifted the scroll again to squint at it, hopefully.

"Anyway," said Matthias, "I'm off. Going to sneak out tonight. Pretty poor guards those rats are, shouldn't be hard. I'll see if the shrews will make a deal. You can finish the last of the cheese."

Matthias got up, finished his ale with a gulp, and walked off to get supplies, affectionately patting Methuselah on the shoulder as he went.

The old mouse sat there for a long while, staring off into space. Finally, he looked over at the remaining cheese that Matthias had left him, and asked quietly, as though speaking only to himself, "I wonder where they keep the tiny, tiny cows."

* * *

**DR4G0NL4NC3**

"Okay, Lord Ariakas and the Dragonarmies are inside that complex at the Temple of Neraka. They're dug in and well-armed, protected by the power of Takhesis. They have hundreds of clerics and mages," said Laurana. The Golden General pointed at the map, stabbing a finger at the spot where the forces of darkness were encamped. She looked up at her war council. "We need to defeat them… a defeat so crushing that they don't recover. We must end this war _now_."

One of the Knights of Solamnia spoke up, saying, "Then we must strike with our full force. All of our knights and the army of Palanthas will draw them out, and then the good dragons and gryphons can strike them from their flanks.

"No," said Laurana, shaking her head. "That won't be enough. Verminaard and his army of draconians are there, and they are monstrous and fierce combatants. We'd suffer too much damage. We need overwhelming force."

"We must ask Raistlin for help, then," said Caramon, though it pained him to mention his brother. The book of Fistandantilus had left the wizard… changed. "He will be able to draw many mages to him, and they can assist our forces in the initial attack."

"That would still not be enough," said the Golden General, clenching her fist. "We need someone of unstoppable might… an attacker who cannot be resisted, no matter what defenses are raised. We need the most powerful weapon we have."

"You don't mean… Fizban?!" said Tika, the barmaid who was increasingly uncertain of her exact role. "But will he assist us? I know that he's obviously an incarnation of Paladine and has the power of a deity, but he really seems to want some of us to die before he helps out."

"No," said Laurana, quietly. "More powerful than even he."

She turned to look at the corner of the command tent, where a small figure was sitting and quietly playing marbles with five Dragon Orbs he'd happened to find by purest luck. He looked up, confused; he hadn't been paying attention.

"Sorry, I wasn't listening," said Tasslehoff Burrfoot. "What was it you needed?"

* * *

**ST4R W4RS**

"You're right, Chewie, it doesn't make sense," said Luke. "The Empire went to a moon this far away from their other bases and reinforcements to rebuild the Death Star? It was a ploy to lure us here, sure, but it's just like Uncle Owen always used to say: put your traps where the air is wet."

He knelt on the forest floor and scooped up a handful of loam, rolling it thoughtfully between his fingers. Chewbacca, who sometimes felt that no one really listened, nodded sagely from where he stood at the edge of the clearing.

"But, Master Luke, the Emperor had a plan to destroy the Rebellion when they attacked. A large contingent of Imperial ships were waiting," said C-3PO.

"If I'm building the Death Star again - this time with more turrets in the canals - then I'm not using it and _myself_ as bait for the entire enemy fleet. I'll build it and set traps _other places_. The whole point of the Death Star was to eliminate the rebel threat by obliterating all planets that offered them material support. If I'm the Emperor and I've already won on Hoth a few years ago, I know that I'm not in any danger of losing a war of attrition. I started with an advantage of at least twenty to one, and things only kept going my way." Luke stood up again, tossing away the handful of loam and putting his hands on his hips. He squinted off into the trees.

R2-D2 made a warning buzz and whistle, but C3-PO only turned to admonish him, "The Ewoks are our friends, remember? They worship me as a god." The smaller droid buzzed disconsolately.

"No, it doesn't make sense," Luke said, shaking his head. "When you're already winning the war, you don't use your half-finished ultimate weapon to lure the enemy into a fight. The Emperor was a brilliant politician and strategician… he wouldn't do that." He turned to Chewie. "There must be something else here. Some valuable resource or tool..."

R2-D2 beeped and buzzed, rocking from side to side. Luke frowned at him, and knelt down. "What's wrong, R2?" He looked at C3-PO for a translation.

"He says there are many Ewoks nearby, Master Luke. I don't know why he's on about it, though, really I don't," huffed the golden droid. "They wiped out almost all of the Stormtroopers during the battle… they're on our side."

"That does seem strange, too, now that I think about it," mused Luke. "What do you think, Chewie? Chewie?" The Wookie was gone. Luke rose swiftly to his feet and took a few steps towards where Chewbacca had been. "Chewie? Where did he… R2, I want you to scan for him and see where he went." Luke turned back around, only to find that the droids had vanished in just the same way. Silently, as though they'd never been there.

Luke reached slowly and carefully into his robes and pulled out his lightsaber. He turned it on, and the comforting buzz and warm green glow filled the clearing.

In the trees, the Ewoks smiled toothily.

* * *

**H4RRY P0TT3R 4ND TH3 M3TH0DS 0F R4T10N4L1TY**

"No, Mr. Potter, we don't have anything to discuss. Now go back to Ravenclaw Tower and do your homework, please. Good day." Minerva McGonagall sighed, sitting back down at the chair in front of Albus' desk, while the Boy Who Lives went away to spend most of his time offstage. "Silly boy should go get some air - go running out among the rye or something."

"Indeed," said Dumbledore, in a fond wheeze. "Yet I suspect he has much to teach us. If only there were some sort of clue as to his behavior. Compared to other students he is… very odd... laughably demanding… eh, more obviously rascally, though."

"Yes, I quite concur," said McGonagall. " 'Puusepa naine tõlvata, sepa naine kirveta.' "

Dumbledore chuckled indulgently at the obscure Estonian proverb. "Now then… I have made some remarkable discoveries in Transfiguration, but before I can discuss them, we must have a very long discussion about international politics."

"And tariffs too, I hope," said McGonagall, looking hopefully over the tops of her glasses.

"Tariffs, too," said the kindly old man, reassuringly.


	28. Parabolas

_Hermione -_

_There is much unrest here. Much same in Ackle. I was admitted to Urgod Ur and spoke with most Urs, but feel I did not get whole picture. Many Urs, even the Jurg Hod, old allies of my line, speak only in surfaces. There is some hidden group, gathering together. Malfoy? Others?_

_Worried. I am told there is a weapon stockpile by artificers, but hear denials when asking for curiosity. Traveling to Ackle tomorrow. Will owl from there._

_-Urg_

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

Once upon a time, Professor Sinistra had told Pip that he was a "poor student and a disappointment." Coming from the notoriously quiet professor, it had been a pretty nasty insult. Pip had still Hufflepuffed away in Astronomy after that, but those words were probably why he'd never even considered advancing to an Astronomy N.E.W.T.

Truth be told, he probably wouldn't have stood much of a proper chance, anyway. Even though he'd never had a problem understanding the ideas involved, the whole ruddy subject just never worked properly for him. It was like there was a chunk missing from his head, and that chunk was the particular part that would have helped him sort out the difference between a Ganymede-shaped blotchy shadow on the surface of Jupiter or a Callisto-shaped blotchy shadow on the surface of Jupiter. They always just looked like… well, roundish blotches.

It was funny, then, that Pip was a personal witness to the launch of the Tower's space programme. There were many witnesses, of course: a few other aurors, most of the staff of Material Methods, a few researchers from the Extension Establishment, scattered people from six other departments, most of the Muggle researchers of the Tower, three Unspeakables, two journalists, and some observers from the Uagadou School of Magic and the Russell Institute.

But _not _that snooty Professor Sinistra.

"Philip Pirrip," the history books would say, "was present at many events of enormous importance and expense in his capacity as Tower Auror. Known to be a personal friend and confidante of the Tower himself, Pirrip played an important role during key historical times. Although the handsome wizard would eventually lead the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, assisted by his predecessor and husband Cedric Diggory, and although he would go on receive the Order of Merlin for his work in forcing all the centaurs to speak in proper English, Pirrip would often describe his days working side-by-side with Harry Potter as some of his proudest moments. Professor Auror Sinistra, on the other hand, was just very good at counting the rings of Saturn."

Something like that, anyway.

Kwannon was glaring at him. _ Bugger. Need to stop daydreaming._

Pip stood just a little bit straighter, and plastered a grim look of attentive threat on his face. He scanned the crowd, looking for threats, and was relieved to see in his peripheral vision that Kwannon had turned her attention elsewhere.

"Today," said the Tower, "is rather an important day. The _Monroe_'s launch vehicle will reach the altitude of the intended Clarke orbit in less than twenty minutes, and then the satellite will kick free - putting wizards in space for the first time in history." There was a small smattering of applause at this last line, and Mr. Potter paused to smile for a moment. He was wearing the old-style robes of a Hogwart's educator, formal black and complete with a string tie. Even his ponytail was tied back with a silk ribbon. "We have also learned that final testing is nearly complete on the Extension Establishment's great masterpiece, as the latest version of their sliceboxes has proven to be twice as powerful and entirely stable. As we stand here today, they are undergoing final testing in the Remote Cautionary Platform of the Department of Mysteries, to which Madame Hopkirk has graciously granted us access for safety's sake." Mr. Potter gestured at the Venerable Unspeakable graciously, and she nodded in acknowledgement.

"In fact, I think we'll have…" Mr. Potter paused a moment, glancing to someone in the crowd - Percy Weasley, it looked like - before continuing. "Yes, we'll have a view of the sliceboxes in use. For some of you, this will be the fulfillment of years of work. For others, this will be where you finally learn what we've spent so much time and sweat doing. It's… no, I better not spoil it, or Luna will be unhappy with me." Mr. Potter shook his head in mock rue, still smiling. Ms. Lovegood, who was standing to the rear of the small crowd, looked up in surprise. She hadn't been paying attention, and her narrow face looked a bit alarmed. But she smiled almost immediately after she sorted through the situation, as though it had just taken her a moment to get caught up to everyone else.

"Auror Kraeme, if you please?" said Mr. Potter, gesturing at the wall to his right. "We'll take a look - a Byrd's eye view, so to speak - at what they have ready for us way down south at the RCP. Madame Umbridge you'll… yes, thanks." Madame Umbridge had a bubbler in front of her face, and she nodded impatiently at the Tower's words. As best as Pip could gather, that foul lump of a woman was monitoring the proceedings in Russia, so they'd know when to watch the launch of the _Monroe_. She was wearing the white coat she'd been affecting lately, with a long pink scarf draped around her neck in folds.

As prompted, Kraeme cast the Twoview Charm, tapping her wand on the wall indicated by Mr. Potter. The surface shivered at the touch, and the small gaps and cracks between the fitted stones appeared to melt into each other, subsiding and smoothing until the wall - part of the main Material Methods manufactory room - was a slick surface of wet-gleaming liquid stone. Almost immediately, shapes began to bubble up from within the stone, resolving into a sharp-edged grey image, while the rest of the enchanted wall seemed to recede away from the crowd.

The features of Harry Madagascar were the first thing visible. The Tower Auror's face swelled out of the wall, six feet high, bearded and serious. He said something, and the image wobbled up and down, as the sender on the other end of the spell nodded. "It'll just be a moment, everyone," said Mr. Potter, smiling wryly at the display. The sender moved, and Madagascar slipped out of sight. A grey-toned view of the Tower entrance slid up and out of the stone in his place. "Security protocols here are pretty strict, as you may know," added Mr. Potter, and there were a few chuckles from the small crowd.

Other colors were starting to billow up from within the stone, grainy reds, veined white, mottled yellow, and cobalt blue. They leeched into the Twoview image irregularly, coloring the golden arch of the Tower entrance before silvering the security hatch. The peach-colored tubes of a pair of Extendable Ears were just barely visible running along the floor, although the image wasn't quite clear enough to make out that detail unless you already knew what they were (as Pip did). After a moment, the view shifted forward as the sender stepped up to the entrance. There was another wall of stone erected just within the Receiving Room, and it swelled to fill the view until all edges and lumps were out of sight: the Material Methods wall looked almost like it had before the spell, as it accurately reproduced the features of another wall at the other end of the Tower. One Twoview, then, was showing the audience an image of that wall, on which a second Twoview would produce an image - a physical and slightly awkward way of bridging the powerful enchantments that locked the Tower facility away from scrying and spying.

"Luna? You want to take us through this?" asked Mr. Potter. When the blonde witch nodded and began to walk around the perimeter of the room towards him, the Tower smiled. "I'll give everyone a break from listening to me; Ms. Lovegood here will tell you about the slicebox worlds, and explain how they work."

The scientific prodigy Luna Lovegood, who was a year younger than Mr. Potter but had risen through sheer creative brilliance to become the leader of Tower projects in multiple departments, always had a sort of vague air about her. She was rumoured to be a seer, although that story might just have come from her long and famous involvement with her father's newspaper. Pip thought that there was just a lot going on behind those big grey eyes, distracting her from the rest of the world - sometimes to the point where she absent-mindedly walked into ruddy walls.

"I entered into the slicebox project at the request of Nemeniah Salieri, who I worked with on-" she hesitated, "-another effort." Ms. Lovegood stepped in front of the Twoview wall, and gestured up at an oblong swelling that was starting to appear across the whole of the view. It looked rather like a pocked Quaffle, deflated enough to look squashed at one end, or like an insect's cocoon.

"This is a model of what we have created by nesting our most powerful sliceboxes together. It takes advantage of the Elastic Law of Elasticity - an extended space within another extended space loses some small and variable amount of its own capacity to extend space." Ms. Lovegood sounded dreamy as she spoke, as if she were describing something other than the most boring bloody thing that Professor Flitwick ever put on an exam downstairs.

The view behind the witch moved away, as the sender (some poor bloke had been condemned to that icy waste of a research station for this test) stepped away from the model. The Material Methods wall sank rapidly away from the audience until it reached the Twoview spell's maximum few meters in apparent depth, but nothing came into sight - the sender wasn't looking at anything with enough detail to register on the spell. For a moment nothing was visible on the smooth grey stone.

Then the sender turned again, and a broad dias snapped up into view. Resting in the middle was a brown satchel (or maybe burgundy - the stained-stone colour was unclear), rather like one of the fancier dragonhide overnight bags. "And here we have it. A great deal of work, and one of the Tower's first and most important projects. Just a prototype, of course."

Ms. Lovegood smiled airily, and turned away from the image to look out on the crowd. No one was reacting, except for a smiling Mr. Potter and a few of the obviously gleeful Extension Establishment researchers, who actually appeared to already be rather tipsy. A few of the other researchers were whispering among themselves, and the journalists, Unspeakables, and visitors looked baffled.

"It's a… oh, bother. Just a moment. He'll be going inside in a moment."

"Surely it's not… Madame Lovegood, am I missing something, here?" said the professor from the Russell Institute, a serious-looking fellow with a floppy brown hat. According to Pip's briefing, he was an expert in their broomstick program, and one of the researchers for Varápidos Brooms.

Ms. Lovegood didn't answer, turning back to look at the wall behind her. The image jostled, stone shifting and sliding fluidly, as the sender approached the bag and opened it. He turned it on its side, and then the image dropped sickeningly as the sender lowered himself. The mouth of the bag lurched out of the wall, yawning wide enough to engulf a Welsh Green, and then the image fell entirely flat and grey once more.

"Just wait…" said Ms. Lovegood, quietly. "And see what we did."

Inside the satchel was a whole bloody world.

The Material Methods wall looked like a volcano had bloomed from the wall, as a hollow cone reached several meters forward. Within the cone, the sides fell away and out, stretching and diminishing until they were lost to the Twoview's poor sight. The scale was hard to make out, but the satchel's extended space had to be immense. Pip tore himself away from his surprise long enough to scan the crowd closely for threats, but soon found his eyes dragged back to the wall. There were all manner of extended spaces: handbags that had the capacity of a closet, and even tents the size of a small house. But this was… bigger.

"One thousand, six hundred, and fifty-five sliceboxes, half-nesting within each other, like overlapping barnacles, each one with a kilometer-wide curved mouth" said Ms. Lovegood. "In some sense, that satchel contains some of a wooden box, which contains some of another wooden box, which contains some of another box, and so on… one thousand, six hundred, and fifty-five times. We lose a few percentage points of capacity each time, mostly from the height and width dimensions, but each box supplies a bit more volume to the total space as they overlap. Imagine… imagine a suit of goblin mail. Each scale overlaps the next, sheltering a larger area beneath. Each bubble of extended space adds on to the compounding space within the pocket." She paused, and added, "The internal dimensions of the space - of the pocket - are about the size of Diagon Alley."

That last comment drew more of a response than anything, with some of those in the audience gasping.

"And we're not done," said the Tower, from his position to the left of the wall and Ms. Lovegood. "Right now, our prototype pocket world is the size of a small town. We're working on layering together even more of the sliceboxes and pushing the boundaries out enough to contain entire biomes. Place the exterior slicebox - or bag, or whatever - in a protective shell, and you have portable, self-contained worlds."

"A prison," said one of the journalists - an American witch, the one who'd written about the integration facility, Siegfried's, and the profile on Amycus Carrow when he had returned from his hideout on Cyprus (where he'd fled after his sister and her husband had been murdered by his former master, You-Know-Who). _Uncertain loyalties,_ Pip thought, and this line of thought proved it. The journalist's face was a pinched frown, and she added, "The perfect prison. That's what you've built."

"What?" said the Tower, and the smile faded from his face. He turned cold green eyes on the interlocutor. "No. And it is a sad thing to see something so wonderful and seek out the darkest use for it."

"But it could be used that way, unless I'm wrong?" said the journalist. "The prisoners could even keep their wands, since they would pose no threat to anyone outside their prison, and if they destroyed it from within, they'd be killed in the process."

"That is a possibility… but it's one of the least interesting ones," said Mr. Potter. "These worlds will represent an end to nearly _all _existential risk. They will be places of nearly perfect, nearly unbreachable safety and security. They will be… _planets_."

"Acromantulas, cockatrices, erklings, tebos… there are many creatures that we spend much time restraining and preserving. No more. They can have their own escape-proof, Muggle-free world. Once we improve them to be large enough to have plants and animals that sustain themselves, we'll no longer have to choose between periodic rampages and genocide," suggested Ms. Lovegood, in a dreamy tone out of keeping with her words.

"And right now we're looking at an image from Antarctica, for safety's sake. Imagine having a laboratory the size of a city, where you didn't need to worry about degrees of caution for anyone but yourself!" added Mr. Potter, the smile appearing back on his face.

"A lot of good wizards and witches will lose their positions, it sounds like, and only the wealthiest will be able to afford this," ventured the American. "Will this have an impact on your economy?"

"Yes, in the same way that the coffin-makers have suffered as the death rate has dropped," said the Tower, and his sarcasm was cutting enough that some of the onlookers chuckled. "Gaspard Shingleton might have put a lot of professional stirrers out of work with his self-stirring cauldron, but that doesn't mean his invention wasn't wonderful… as anyone who struggled through first-year Potions can attest!" There was open laughter now, and the American fell silent.

Ms. Umbridge chose this moment to look up from her bubbler and begin waving vigorously at the Tower, who turned to her, smiling. "Thank you, Madame Umbridge." He raised his hands and addressed the crowd again. "Everyone, Madame Umbridge has signaled me to let me know that we are close to the launch - our main event, don't forget! Thank you, Ms. Lovegood." The blonde witch nodded vaguely, and stepped quietly away, to return to her original spot. The Tower turned his attention to the Twoview wall, and crossed his arms expectantly. The RCP image - that enormous cone - slumped out of existence, and the surface of the wall was smoothly quiescent again.

"All right, there we go. The launch will be soon," said Mr. Potter. "We have a witch on-site in Kazakhstan, and so we'll have an image up in a moment."

Someone in the audience raised their hand. That Vision Verge lady, Jeannette Lorge, Pip thought. Mr. Potter nodded at the woman.

"Sir, for the launch... I thought that we were using a Russian rocket? It doesn't really matter, but that's what my team was told when we were working on this."

"Well, yes," agreed the Tower, glancing to his right as he spoke. The wall was beginning to melt and shift again, and most of it was receding back away from the crowd. "The Muggles in Russia run their program out of a facility in Kazakhstan, though - odd byproduct of a long-running political conflict in the Muggle world."

One of the other journalists in the crowd spoke up. "Excuse me, sir… isn't that right between the Caucasus and the Ten Thousand? Depending on whether or not the Ten Thousand join the Independents… will the Ministry - er, the Tower, that is - will you continue to try to use that site in the future?"

"I do not anticipate the need for very many other launches, so this shouldn't be an ongoing concern. Or, wait…" Mr. Potter frowned for a moment as he paused to think. To his right, the view was colouring again with chromatic streaks, and an object like a sausage swelled out of the wall, flanked by thin lattices. The lattices seemed to be bracing up the sausage - the rocket, it must be, Pip realized. Their delicate strands looked like nothing so much as an unnaturally regular pair of stone spiderwebs.

"No, I think I can safely say that there shouldn't be any appreciable security concerns before too long," finished the Tower. He turned to look at the image himself, and a grin began to spread on his face. It looked boyish, like a child tucking into his first Chocolate Frog. The entire exchange with the American journalist looked like it had been wiped away, leaving only delight in its place. "Madame Umbridge?"

The squat Unspeakable - or was she now a Tower researcher? - still holding her bubbler in front of her, stepped up next to the Tower. She held the bubbler closer to her ear, so that she could hear what was being relayed to it (via Extendable Ear and a second pair of bubblers) from the sender at the launch site. "The launch will be taking place within the minute," she said, her voice chirpy and bright. "The _Monroe_ will be put into the space outside of the air around our planet, and it will stay there, flying overhead at a fixed rate."

Pip still couldn't really picture it. He understood everything about it - the Tower Aurors had all gotten a briefing from Umbridge and endured a question-and-answer session in which Gregor Nimue had asked all manner of mocking and sarcastic questions, and Umbridge had answered him with a murderous sweetness. But there's a difference between grasping something Ravenclaw-style, and really understanding it well enough to use that knowledge. It was the difference between something for which you planned and something you could use _in _a plan. Professor Slughorn had called those the "knowables" and "useables," in his puffed-up way.

The sender approached closer to the launch vehicle, and the shape of the off-white rocket grew until the entire thing was just visible on the wall. "Madame Bogdanova of the Shichinin has kindly agreed to track the rocket as far as her Nimbus can go. Proper pictures will also be made available to the press, and more updates will follow… including pictures of the _Monroe _and our sfaironaut."

" 'Astronaut,' " interrupted Mr. Potter, turning to her and frowning. "He's an astronaut."

"Sir, I spoke with several of our Muggle researchers and Madame Bogdonova about this, after our discussions about the launch site, and they agreed that we didn't want to endorse one Muggle sphere of influence over another. So rather than 'astronaut' or 'cosmonaut,' we settled on a new term for a magical explorer of the celestial spheres."

"But-" said the Tower.

"The parchments are already all printed up," said Umbridge, smiling toadily. "Sorry if there was any confusion, Harry."

"Sfaironaut…" muttered Mr. Potter, crossing his arms.

"The _Monroe _will represent our finest melding of magic and machine so far, with a built-to-order Muggle device providing the platform, monitored by a team of professionals in the Americas, but with the bulk of the satellite consisting of several devices… most particularly a custom-made Vanishing Cabinet. Further building, more satellites, and even the insertion of our sfaironaut and his ship will be the simplest of matters, thanks to the connected Cabinet down at the RCP." She paused, glancing down at her bubbler. "We'll count down when the Zenit is about to launch… feel free to join in on the count, everyone!" announced Umbridge, more loudly.

One of the lattices supporting the rocket was moving away, slowly. The Tower and his audience all fixed their attention on the shape of the launch vehicle, crafted by the liquid stone of the Twoview spell and stained into colour by the natural tints of underlying rock.

Pip wondered what sort of security was on site at Baikonur. There must be Muggle people with guns, of course, but there were probably any number of aurors stationed on guard. For operational security, that sort of thing was kept secret even from other aurors, but Pip suspected Moody, at least, must be in Kazakhstan. Moody was in the Tower only a few hours a day to test for security and read reports, and that had been the case for years.

"Ten… nine… eight… seven… six…" began Umbridge, and half of the room join her, including Ms. Lovegood, Mr. Potter, and every single one of the Muggle and goblin researchers. Some of the more dignified witches and wizards, such as Madame Hopkirk, only smiled pleasantly instead.

The stone at the bottom of the image of the rocket began to bubble and fizz, roiling out from the bottom of the rocket in clouds. Pip held his breath.

"Five… four… three…"

There was a sharp surge of reddish stone from within the thick grey clouds clouds, as fire began to spray all around the base of the rocket. The Muggle technology seemed to be based around cramming an enormous load of the fire into the body of the rocket, Pip thought, and then shooting it out the bottom.

"Two… one… lift-up!"

The rocket lifted up. It moved surprisingly slowly. Pip would have thought it'd streak out of sight almost immediately, but it seemed as though it were struggling its way up, blasting curtains of fire along the way. It was amazing the thing was going anywhere, really; he should be impressed with what the Muggles had done with their limited circumstances. The whole thing was like a blastbomb just waiting to explode, but instead it was climbing into the sky and beyond.

The even ground and whatever were those supporting lattices vanished a moment later, as the sender - Ilya Bogdanova, Pip thought Umbridge had mentioned - began flying upward to follow the rocket's path. She must have already been on her broom, with whatever Charms she'd need (Warming Charm, Bubblehead Charm… others?)

The image on the Material Methods wall was now an unsteady view of the white rocket, a flare of red and billowing column of smoke underneath, like a strangely tubular dragon on the attack. Pip glanced around, and saw Mr. Potter's hands were clasped in front of him, tight, and his face looked as though he were having some higher experience.

For almost five minutes, by Pip's estimation, the sender followed the rocket as it got smaller and smaller. Eventually, the only thing in view was the thick bubbles of the wall's stone that represented the column of smoke, drifting gently. The Twoview spell ended, and Kraeme took her wand off the wall. She stood up straight and stretched, working her wand arm stiffly in a circle.

Everyone stared at Umbridge, who was on her bubbler again, her free hand plucking nervously at the folds of her scarf. After the passage of a tense minute, during which one of the journalists began to speak before being hushed urgently by a researcher, Umbridge looked up, smiling broadly. "Success! All stages complete, fairing jettisoned, and Sunnyvale reports good signal. They're starting maneuvers."

Mr. Potter lowered his head, and heaved a heavy sigh, a smile still on his face. He turned to the crowd.

"The Earth is a very small stage in a vast cosmic arena," he said, intoning the word solemnly, as though quoting a sacred text. "Think of the endless cruelties visited by the inhabitants of one corner of this pixel on the scarcely distinguishable inhabitants of some other corner, how frequent their misunderstandings, how eager they are to kill one another, how fervent their hatreds. Think of the rivers of blood spilled by all those generals and emperors so that, in glory and triumph, they could become the momentary masters of a fraction of a dot."

He folded his arms in front of him, and Pip could see something distant in his gaze; as though he were looking out on a vista unseen by everyone else. "For many generations, wizards have worried about the loss of magic, as the Interdict slowly erodes the most powerful lore wizardkind has mastered. Every passing century has seen the loss of some artifact. The Cup of Midnight, which gave knowledge, was broken by the last partaker. Satomi's Dogs, which gave life, were destroyed to break Grindelwald's power. The Resurrection Stone, which could penetrate any world, was hidden by Voldemort. But even more worrying is the fact that everything is at risk, for there is just our one little world. Vengeful madmen, careless geniuses, and virulent mistakes… they put not just our lives at risk, but the existence of… of our very species.

"Today marks the first step in changing that. Wizardkind - humankind itself - will no longer be bound to one earthly rock. And more than anything else I've ever done, I'm proud of my part in that. That may be hard for some people to understand but… I… I could die happily, if I had to. I've… done something. After all, 'I have accomplished in life what I have intended and under what circumstances may one better die?' "

There was some murmuring at this, and Pip flashed Kwannon a worried glance. She gave him a look in return, communicating with narrowed eyes, _Keep your mind on your business._

"It's a new day, and great things are happening," concluded the Tower. He turned to look at the blank wall, now mundane.

"Thank you, everyone!" called out Senior Undersecretary Percy Weasley, as he stepped up out of the crowd, waving cheerily. "If everyone will just follow Auror Kraeme down the hall, we have some refreshments and fact-parchments available for you on the great table in the Conjuration Conjunction. Nothing conjured, despite the name, though - don't worry, ha ha!"

The crowd began to filter out. Most of the aurors went with them, with the threat. Pip did, as well, leaving Kwannon alone with Mr. Potter. The Tower still stared at the wall, and seemed so very sad. It was a strange contrast with his earlier delight.

The young auror sighed, and turned his attention to keeping an eye on the trickier and more unusual visitors. Couldn't have a journalist go sneaking off.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_Sometimes when I think about everything that's happened in my life, and everything I've done, and everything I am, and just how much of it began on a single night in 1981… I see everything in my life as a sort of arc - or maybe arcs - these long trends bending all the way through in unbroken curves._ He thought back to his first meeting with Draco, and the way they'd immediately fallen into a pattern of simultaneous alliance and competition, leashed together by Harry's own cleverness. He thought back to the his first interactions with Hermione, asking her to be his research assistant as though that were some kind of reward, even as she gently but consistently outshone him. And he thought about his ambition to sort the world into neat columns and sum them up into a single figure, an arrangement of digits that shunned death and pain, encompassed the stars, and reached towards knowledge with the joyous inevitability of a determined child learning to walk.

And he thought about the single arc that undergirded them all, a tremendous single stroke of a line, bright-black and shiny and dark, that Voldemort had rooted in his flesh. A madman in his mind, shaping his thoughts and expectations and feelings.

He'd had a loving home and wonderful parents. He'd had all the values and virtues of the Enlightenment. He'd mastered his dark side, suborned it to his use and subsumed it into his mind.

But nonetheless, the night of the 31st of October had been - would always be - the black line that slashed through and behind everything. The arc that defined him.

Somehow, he'd never altered the curve of any of these patterns. Draco, Hermione, optimization… even as he grew and matured and learned, everything kept taking the same shape.

That black line… where would it end? Where would that dark parabola finally fall to earth?

He'd bullied so many people over the years, forcing confrontations with Minerva and Dumbledore and Hermione and Draco and Kingsley and Moody and so many others. Forcing his way forward, because he saw the need. Even though he knew there would be a reckoning. Like a sword over his head, he could feel it waiting.

Now he was doing great things, wonderful things. Things that would leave a mark on the world. When he'd been a child, he'd worried that he might never live up to his potential. Now, by any measure, he had done things to be proud of. Even up to the standards he should reach, he could be proud. But at this peak… he had to remember. He had to remember that black arc that cut through him - that dark underpinning to his world and mind. That dark line, curving and waiting to plunge down to the earth.

When would he pay the price that he'd forestalled for so long, with tricks and gambits and sheer ingenuity?

Would his work be complete?

Would it hurt?


	29. Purchasing Power

SIBERIAN SMASH: GODDESS STRIKES DOWN "RUSSIAN AZKABAN"

\- _Daily Prophet_ headline for April 21st, 1999.

WAR? THUNDERER THREATENS THRASHING

\- _Daily Prophet_ headline for April 22nd, 1999.

MUGGLE MAGIC AS TOWER LAUNCHES SPACE

\- _Daily Prophet_ headline for April 23rd, 1999.

GODDESS GOES WINDOW SHOPPING AT B&amp;B

\- _Daily Prophet_ headline for April 24th, 1999.

"MONSTROUS": NEW PICTURES FROM ZEMLYA

\- _Daily Prophet_ headline for April 25th, 1999.

CONFLICT BREWING: THUNDERER CALLS CONCLAVE OF DOMOVOI

\- _Daily Prophet_ headline for April 26th, 1999.

INDEPENDENTS UNITE BEHIND RUSSIA

\- _Daily Prophet_ headline for April 27th, 1999.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Ministry of Magic_

_April 28th, 1999_

"No," said Hortense Hood, frowning. "You really can't be in there. Sorry." She didn't sound sorry. She sounded like a long-serving auror whose career had been in a nasty slump for years, and who blamed the Goddess for that, and who was enjoying the opportunity to get some revenge - even if it was in the most petty way imaginable.

Hermione didn't allow herself to sigh, and kept a pleasant smile on her face. She'd been planning on sitting at the table across from some of the people they'd taken in last week's raid. She'd even dressed for the occasion - a soft-looking old robe, homely and brown, that helped turn her aura of innocence into the maternal and welcoming look of a confidante. But Hood was in charge of the investigation, and Hood was saying no.

_Harry forced vote after vote on the Wizengamot, and argued and pleaded and bribed to try to get a majority on his side. We were within three votes of closing that hellhole, and everyone knew which way it was going. You volunteered there, anyway - you were commander! - in exchange for quadruple the typical salary for an executive auror. You and all the rest of them should have been sacked. _Hermione shook her head, putting a slight rueful twist on her smile. _There will be no satisfaction for you on this from me, not even the slightest bit. You volunteered to torture people for money. _Mild disappointment, nothing more, as she crossed her arms and looked at the powerfully-built woman before her. The middle-aged auror's hair was a storm of black frizz, forced back into a tight bun, and she had a pleased light in her dark-lashed eyes.

"You're in charge, of course, Auror Hood. I suppose it is slightly unusual, but I've done it many times before - and I was there when the raid took place, with some of the beat aurors and some of those stationed at the Tower. And of course, I went to school for a year with Margaret, and know her sister. It might help, is all," Hermione said. Light, nice, and nonconfrontational. _We're not fighting, we're friends, I just want to help, la dee da._

"Yes… and what exactly was your role, there? In what capacity are you going around capturing full-blooded wizards and witches, like they were stray Kneazles?" asked Hood, coolly. "Maybe that's something we should talk about… what do you think?"

The stupidity on display was frustrating, and Hermione frankly couldn't understand it. How did you rise to auror executive level - even if you never found another command position, anywhere, after the demise of Azkaban - with this level of situational blindness? Auror admission standards were notoriously high. They'd been relaxed during the increase of the force in the past few years, of course, but they were still supposed to keep out anyone who acted like a child… and anyway, Hood had been an auror for decades.

Hermione knew other immature-seeming aurors (like that one with great expectations and little sense that she'd met at the Tower). No screening or training program was perfect, after all. But didn't Hood know - couldn't she have figured out - that it wasn't a smart idea to taunt the prison-smashing, Dementor-destroying world leader who had a private militia, whom the Chief Auror had been pestering for a date, and who was best friends with the most powerful wizard on the planet?

_On the other hand, _thought Hermione, _if she had been the smart sort, she wouldn't have been in command of Azkaban to begin with, once the winds started to blow the other way. I hope you like being a beat auror, Hortense, because I don't think a promotion will be coming your way for a while. And why? Just pettiness. You'd think the example of Umbridge would have taught people that you don't _have_ to stay stuck to your mistakes. You can change your mind._

Should Hermione just swallow her pride and give Hood a victory? It might end the grudge, or at least blunt it… and if there was a next time, that might help. No one was around, and it cost Hermione nothing.

_No. She's not going to ever forget that I ended her career - or decide that the blame is her own. And she'd enjoy it too much if I "begged" her not to raise a fuss. It'd probably encourage more of this. Frustrating. Why don't you know that I care about you and want to help you, too, Madame Hood?_

A beat had passed, and the question hung in the air. Hermione just kept smiling pleasantly, and shrugged in answer. Just like rolling your shoulder away from a punch; there was no gift of impact.

Hood said nothing, waiting expectantly for an answer, trying to use the awkward silence against Hermione. Eventually, she broke the tension, saying in a brittle tone, "Well. I suppose we'll have to see if anything comes of that. But you'll not be going in on the interrogations."

"All right," Hermione said, brightly. The auror tried to stare her down for a moment longer, then, satisfied she'd made her point, Hood opened the door to the antechamber of TT-1 (Thief-Taker Room #1, what a Muggle might call an interrogation or interview room) and disappeared inside, closing the door sharply behind herself.

_Well, we're in the DMLE already - it'll be easy to report that someone's career was just murdered, _she thought, glancing down the corridor to where a trio of office workers were pretending to be obliviously sipping tea._ Way too many people will hear about this and try to curry favor by going after my "enemy."_

Hermione shook her head, ruefully. She'd need to try harder to reach people like that. She knew that some people prided themselves on their enemies: Godric Gryffindor himself had claimed that "The Tally of mine Virtue shall be the List of my Foes." Harry had repeated it on occasion, approvingly. But that was wrong, truly, and Hermione thought that some of the bullies of Hogwarts had been influenced by that false sentiment. It was important to fight evil, yes, and defeat it. But it was far, far better to take evil by the hand, listen to its point of view, patiently and kindly discuss things, and finally walk away, hand-in-hand. Hood wasn't her enemy - she was just a friend, waiting to be made.

_I wonder if there's anything I can do for her that wouldn't be seen as an insult or bribe. I'd better put Susie on it. She's good at that. Or Esther_.

_Not her,_ Hermione remembered. _Esther and Char are in Godric's Hollow, getting their new place set up. _She'd almost forgotten. How strange it was, to imagine a world without Esther by her side. Hermione had almost given up hope that her Returned could ever really heal; maybe some of them never would. Hyori seemed to become more grim every year, not less. But there was hope again.

"Happy thoughts, Ms. Granger? You look far away in some wonderful place," came a familiar American voice.

"Councilor Hig!" said Hermione, turning around and smiling. Reg Hig was walking down the corridor towards her, stepping around the office workers. Two of them weren't very circumspect in eyeing his plum nose or deep-set eyes as the squat wizard passed; the third muttered something to them - probably along the lines of "Oy, stop your staring, that bloke is just about in charge of America." They averted their gazes, and spied somewhat more discreetly.

"How are you, my dear? We have missed you in Tidewater - you and your Returned, kicking in doors and righting wrongs - but the papers tell me you've taken that performance on tour, here and in Russia." She offered him her hand, still grinning, and he bent slightly to plant a firm kiss on the back of it. She'd been back in Boston twice since her first visit, when she'd exposed Tineagar in the midst of investigating Malfoy's misdeeds, and they'd become friendly - if not that close. "Would you have lunch with me… if you have time? There's a cafeteria here, right?"

"Yes, there's a canteen for Ministry staff. But let's go to Siegfried's, instead," said Hermione. "You will enjoy it rather more, I promise. Unless you need to be here for a meeting…?" _Hint, hint: why are you here?_

"If you don't mind me bringing along a friend, that will be my sincere pleasure, Ms. Granger," said Hig. "I have just been here to chat with a few friends. Something to do with you, actually. But there's a lot to talk about."

"Hermione, please," prompted the Goddess - she must have insisted on this at least four or five times, over the past few months. _To do with me, and a lot to talk about… obvious enough. So you're here about the Independents and Russia, and maybe also looking for another way to put the pressure on Harry for better terms. And I wonder how long it took you to track me down, so you could "accidentally" bump into me? _She wasn't being cynical: Hig had the reputation of a careful and methodical man, if an orator of considerable passion, and every time she'd ever spoken with him, he'd been ruthlessly charming and charmingly ruthless with his hidden agendas.

Hig looked up at her and smiled broadly. "Hermione, then. I'll meet you at Diagon Alley's Safety Pole?"

"Certainly," she said. As Hig bowed slightly and walked away once more, she watched the three office workers scurry away. She was willing to wager they were off to beg for a long lunch - so that they could go trot off to Siegfried's, too.

_Nosy parkers_, she thought fondly, and grinned again.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

The Diagon Alley Safety Pole had become something of a hospital complex of itself. What had formerly been a white canvas tent when the Safety Pole was set up three years ago had been replaced by a baroque building of veined Swedish Green marble. After she took a moment to bubble Hyori and tell her where she was going, Hermione Apparated in. She lighted on the cobblestones, and stared up at the facade. _Beautiful_. _And not a streak of discolouration at all. _She wondered if Diagon Alley had localized weather. She'd never actually thought about it.

She had only a moment to herself to admire the building and think deep thoughts, however, before someone recognized her and a small crowd gathered. She hoped that she wouldn't have to wait long, since she wasn't exactly dressed to the nines. She should have popped home to change.

_Not that they care_, she thought, clasping a young man's hand. He'd been rejuvenated last year, and just wanted to tell her how much he supported her and the Tower. She inclined her head graciously, and told him that she hoped he was doing something exciting with his new youth. He tried to reply, but he was beginning to weep with emotion.

Hyori and Susie arrived a few minutes later. Hermione was extremely grateful, and shot them a look of appreciation - crowds were always a job for more than one person. Hyori took up position a short distance away, watchful, while Susie helped take the arm of the weeping man from Hermione, soothing him as she walked him a short distance away. "Cor," Hermione heard her say to the man, "she's something, isn't she." Hermione smiled, and turned to the next people who wanted to speak to her: a little boy and his mother.

"My name is Hosea," squeaked the little boy, looking up at her. He had his mother's robes bunched up in one hand, and he kept trying to lift them to hide his face, despite his mother's efforts to stop him. "Hosea Hussey." He was a cute little thing, with apple cheeks and enormous buck teeth that reminded Hermione of herself when she was a child.

Hermione leaned down. "You didn't happen to write to me ever, did you, Hosea?"

The child's eyes grew as large as hen's eggs. He nodded, slowly.

She reached into her pouch and called up a copy of her Chocolate Frog card. "Was this yours?"

It wasn't, of course. But she'd remembered this child's letter, and she had the card, so why not?

Hosea nodded again, and his mouth opened slightly. He didn't say anything else. Hermione looked up at his mother, smiling. She looked shocked, too.

"Maybe I could sign this, and give it back to you, Hosea. If that's all right with your mum?"

"That would be lovely," said the woman. "We… oh…" She was flustered.

Hermione retrieved a biro from her robes and slashed her signature across the card. She bent down and offered it to the child with both hands and a big smile. "Here you go."

By the time the woman had thanked Hermione on behalf of her stunned child four or five times, Susie was there to guide them away with a kind word. Hermione put away the biro, and noticed that Hig had arrived. He had another wizard with him - a bald man with spectacles, a goatee, and a wide belly: Per Aavik-Söderlundh-Ellingsen, a leading bureaucrat with the Norden's Magidepartementet. She knew Per in a vague way, but not much beyond a casual chat.

"Hello, Reg. And Master Aavik! A pleasure to see you again. I hope you're joining us?" she said, approaching them. Hermione had to gently move through the small crowd of people, and she paused for a moment to give an older woman a hug.

"Ms. Granger," said Per, pleasantly in his warm, unaccented basso profundo. "Hello. Yes, I would like that."

"We're just over here, then," said Hermione. Unasked, Susie had already walked ahead of them to arrange a table, moving briskly enough to make her chest bounce and a few heads turn. Hyori, on the other hand, was nowhere to be seen - probably warding Hermione from some vantage point. Sometimes Hermione felt a little silly at that whole thing, to be honest.

"You have very attentive servants," remarked Per, noticing as they walked alongside each other along the cobblestone lane. A few people followed them at a discreet distance, but most of the crowd just watched them go.

Hermione opened her mouth to explain, but Hig smoothly cut in. "She does, yes. Ms. Granger's beauty might have much to do with it, but also she's simply that kind of witch. It's a thing out of legend." He gave a slight shake of his head when she glanced at him from behind Per's back, and she let it go.

The three of them had barely stepped inside of Siegfried's bronze-filigreed door before the maître d' had appeared, silently guiding them to their table in the dining room. He was professional and polite, and had the insuperable gift of seeming to know just what you wanted before you'd even asked. Hermione had eaten here last week, and now she suspected the man was a seer. It was the only explanation, even though it seemed vanishingly unlikely in a restaurant specifically dedicated to the wonders of Muggle luxuries. Siegfried's was decorated with buttery mahogany, comfortably warm lighting, and linens so crisply fresh that a house elf would approve.

"A pint of bitter for sir," said the maître d', nodding to Per, "and two glasses of water, is that right?" It was unprompted and yet exactly correct. The server vanished without another word, pausing only to leave a slip of cardboard with each of them, on which the menu was printed.

"More than just kidneys and thick beef?" asked the Nordenman, lifting his menu. "Did I perhaps accidentally leave Britain?"

"And end up somewhere with a decent bite?" said Hig, smiling a stubble-faced smile. "Nor was there any antique plaster food in a window display, like a real pub. I think we were side-alonged out to a different country at some point."

"I would reply in kind with comments about your own national cuisines, gentlemen, but I am flummoxed by the wealth of possibilities," said Hermione, with comical primness. She glanced the menu over.

"You will need something bracing, Ms. Granger. Taking charge over matters… we have read about it! The _Kalmaposten _often describes your exploits," said Per. He resettled himself in his chair, scuffing it back and forth until he was situated. "Very exciting."

Hermione looked up from the menu, and saw Hig was looking at her directly, his lips pursed slightly in warning. _Servants and "taking charge"... Hig has told this man that I am a hidden ruler of Britain, in some fashion - more than influential, but an old-style strongman leader. To what purpose?_

"You must mean the raids on Billie's and Borgin &amp; Burkes? Well, it's necessary. The things that were going on... " Hermione shook her head, unhappily.

"And where is it ending up? Everyone off to Howard?" asked Hig, arranging his napkin in his lap.

A waiter arrived with their drinks, and Per eagerly took a long pull of his beer. He smacked small lips, appreciatively.

"There are charges going around. Not sure where it will end up, but at Billie's there were illicit Time-Turners, a violation of the Responsible Research Act of 1959, and unlicensed production of a controlled substance. Also one of Geoffrey Gem's assistants - sorry, Gem was the one brewing Euphoric - one of his assistants had an outstanding charge of duel-fixing." Hermione sipped her water. "And we found out other things, as well." _Such as Gregor Nimue's treachery. I wonder if it would be unethical to begin planting Everlasting Ears on more people. There's no legal mechanism for that, but no law against it, either, in the feudal-style policing of Magical Britain. Mmm…. no, definitely wrong._

They hadn't managed to uncover much new, or find any ongoing crimes, in the more uneventful raid at Borgin &amp; Burkes. _The Prophet_ had needed to run a picture of the broken picture window out front in order to hype up the affair… even though the window had been broken earlier that day by an unidentified vandal.

"This is what I say," said Per, nodding approvingly. "Yes, yes… Sorry, Ms. Granger, but in the Norden there is discussion about treaties, these days. Our neighbor Russia is Independent, and we have close ties with them… their leaders are all Durmstrangen, you see. 'Hogwarts of the North,' yes?"

_And the thing that keeps you advocating for us is that you think there's strength here… that's what you value, more than the Safety Poles in Lübeck, Kanalenmark, Slottet, and Reykjavík. _She understood what Hig had been doing, earlier. _Clever man. Okay, let's sell it._

"Russia will soon learn their folly," said Hermione, in a harsh tone. She paused, and put one hand to her chest, delicately, and smiled again. "I hope they will see the error of joining an international group that exists for the sole purpose of perpetuating infirmity and death." _Oh my goodness what a slip, fear the great rage that dwells within the angry Goddess._

Hig smiled broadly, and his dark eyes were bright with appreciation. "The Council is almost to the point of agreement, I must say. I believe that we will recommend adoption of the Treaty for Health and Life very soon, in fact, if we can sort out a few last disagreements." _Well, that was direct. Show me your value, then name your price. And by having this discussion in front of Per, you also emphasize that I'm a power._

"Oh? What disagreements are there? We here in Britain are quite proud of everything the Tower's done for us and for everyone else in the Treaty," she said, with a small nod towards Per, who nodded his head in agreement as he lifted his pint to his lips again.

There had been a time when she'd be getting upset at this point, thinking things like, _Why are we arguing about tariffs and subsidies when there are people dying?_ But she was wiser, now. Politics was a tool to an end, and it made no sense to get angry at the shovel.

"Speaking with Mr. Potter, he has agreed that there will be an end to the restrictions on free trade, and also that Britain will compensate the Americas for the advantage it has derived over the years from Merlin's misdeeds. He's agreed to endow new programs at the Russell Institute and Salem, indefinitely… including arithmancers, to help us achieve some small part of Britain's recent prosperity. And Britain will stop propping up Cyprus, at least for a time. It's unjust. Now, if we can just meet in the middle on two other things, I think my colleagues will be happy to join with me. Councilor Strongbound won't have a leg to stand on, and we'll sweep the vote. Just a few things, and we've won."

Hermione nodded, setting down her menu and sipping her water. "Go on."

"Goblins can't have wands, first of all. It's ugly, but true. Our American goblins aren't as civilized as your British ones… if we gave them wands, there'd be bloodshed. They've never even _had_ wands, historically, so it's not as though they're missing out. And the other issue is that we can't open our borders to hags, vampires, or werewolves. That's not a matter of prejudice, it's a matter of public health. Even the reformed hags, like your Nutcombe hags, are a danger waiting to happen." Hig shrugged. "I have fought for goblin rights, as well as Muggle rights, for many years, so you know I'm not a blood-purist or supremacist. But there's such a thing as going too far."

"Are we ready to order?" asked a waiter, a slender young man with a neat uniform. She could see the maître d' in one corner of the dining room, where he'd dispatched the waiter. It was eerily good timing, just when she needed a moment to think. If she hadn't been an Occlumens and he hadn't been a Muggle, she'd be fairly sure he was reading her mind.

"The asparagus salad," she ordered. "There's no meat in the dressing?"

"No, Madame. I will make sure. And for sirs?"

"This cut of beef - is it like a Chateaubriand?" asked Hig, setting down his menu.

"Yes, sir."

"I'll have that, then."

"How would sir like it cooked?"

"What?"

"May I recommend rare, sir?"

"A rare what? Oh, yes. Thank you."

"And sir?"

"The same as Councilor Hig, I think," said Per. "Although I should have a salad, I cannot bring myself to do so."

"All right. We'll have that right out. Please tell me if there's anything else I can get for you," said the waiter, and flowed away with the unobtrusive liquid grace of a professional.

"A very nice place," said Hig. "I've eaten at Muggle places before, of course - it's more common in the Americas than back here - but this is a very nice place, indeed."

"Isn't it a bother to go to a Muggle place, though? Not this one, it's very easy and it's proper, you know?" said Per, turning in his chair to look around. "But you must plod all over the place like a goat, or else spend an hour wiping their heads - er, minds. A bother."

"What is your favorite Muggle place, Reg?" asked Hermione. She knew it was obvious she was stalling a bit, but she needed a moment more to think. She couldn't commit in haste. That was another cleverness of Hig's: bringing impressionable Per along made her feel pressured to decide where she stood, right on the spot. The Nordenman was related to half the influential families of the Norden, and his wife was related to the other half. His opinions would go far, and he looked to be easily swayed. She needed to appear decisive and strong. Norden couldn't be allowed to waver, or given the impression that the Council of Westphalia was going to go Independent.

"The Blue Benn, I think," said Hig. She'd wager he was exaggerating about how often he'd gone to Muggle establishments, since Tidewater had actually seemed as insular as most magical communities, but she was still impressed he could name it off the top of his head. "A diner a couple of hours west from Tidewater." He scratched at his chin. "After your first eventful visit, we spent some time trying to track down the origins of some redcaps out in the Berkshire Mountains, and had occasion to dine there. Charming place. Wonderful dough-nuts."

Per drained the rest of his beer, hiccuping when he'd finished it. "Quite good, quite good."

"Served warm, I bet," said Hig, frowning. He shook his head. "Anyway, Hermione… with regards to the goblins being given wands, and open borders… the Tower will give dispensations, right? I know you're not nominally in command of it, but you are a force here. I'm sure that Mr. Potter fears no _poudre de succession_, but I believe that if you gave me your word, it wou-"

"No," said Hermione, firmly.

Hig stopped, and gave her a pointed look. His lips were tight with surprise and displeasure.

_I am capable of taking a hint, little man… but that doesn't mean you always get to lead me around to your intended destination._

"First of all, I'm not at all sure that the Wizengamot and other legislatures would agree to either these changes in the Treaty or to a special exemption. The behavior of our Ministry of Magic - and it _is ours_, make no mistake - is something we can control, Councilor. But despite the idiotic propaganda of the Independents, that gaggle of squawking thugs who are just unhappy that the world is slipping out of their bloody grasp, we do not control the rest of the Treaty nations, as Per can tell you." Hermione said. She was firm, but still kind.

Per seemed uncertain at the sudden change in tone of the conversation, but he was experienced enough to simply nod.

"Secondly, American goblins will get wands, one way or another. If the Council were to recommend against the Treaty, and then American nations were to follow that recommendation - a safe bet - then I think you would find that wands would show up in New Mexico, anyway." She paused for a moment for effect. "Not on our behalf, but surely you know that this is happening _already_. The goblin nations have close ties, and Curd and Ackle are already taking wands to hand." As it happened, she did _not_ know that the American goblins were getting wands from their British and Irish counterparts… but it was a safe bet. And Hig couldn't know differently.

"I think that the Magical Congress can keep tabs fairly well on our magical creatures, Hermione," said Hig. His expression was mild again. "And all of the British tariff enforcement officials will soon have time on their hands… they would be able to keep an eye on your goblins."

"But they won't," assured Hermione, again with firmness. "I'm sorry, Reg. I believe the terms are more than generous already. The most we can do is increase the research stipend."

"_Always leave a way for the opponent to achieve a small victory… so long as they know it's a victory you grant them_." Draco had said that, quoting his father. Good political advice.

"The stipend should already be increased, anyway, since it's so drastically insufficient," said Hig, clasping his hands in front of him on the table. "If we must swallow the world's hags and vampires at their pleasure, the monies should be triple the current value, and pegged to the cost of wheat."

"We'll increase it by twenty-five percent, but we're not going to increase it every year to keep up with inflation… and especially not when the measurement of inflation is a good with a sale price that could be manipulated."

Per watched the exchange, mouth open.

"If you won't even raise it to an equitable level, and it will be reduced to a pittance in my lifetime, then it becomes an insult, not a gift," said Hig, shaking his head. "Double-and-twoscore would be possible, I suppose. And we could use a basket of wholesale good prices as a measurement of 'inflation.' " He pronounced the last word as though it were amusing. She knew that he read Muggle news… but maybe he'd never grasped the finer points of finance. It was funny how much of an advantage reading the _Financial Times_ gave one.

"Fifty percent, and you can work out the terms of a price index with the Tower."

"Done," said Hig, with some satisfaction.

"Your lunch, sirs and madame," said the waiter. He lowered his tray, and began setting plates before them.

"Thank you," said Hermione. "I'm famished." She met Hig's eye, and smiled.

"Three pints of bitter, as well, I think," said Hig, smiling back. "We must drink to an agreement." But even as he spoke, the maître d' was stepping up behind the waiter. He set the three drinks down on the table.

"Cheers," said Per. He was red-faced, and seemed altogether more anxious about what he'd just witnessed than the two principles had been.

"Cheers," said Hermione and Hig. They clinked their glasses.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

Hermione Apparated directly back to the Ministry. She still needed to pick up her mail from her P.A., and she wanted to find out if there had been any results from interrogations in the past couple of hours - even if she would have to ask someone other than the troublesome Hortense Hood. But she had barely walked into the high-ceilinged lobby before she saw Hood herself. The auror was obviously waiting for her, and she approached with a brisk step. Hood's wand was in her hand, and she had a tense and sharp look on her face.

Hermione glanced down at it, then looked back up. _Wand out?_

"Ms. Granger, you'll need to come with me," said Hood. She spoke commandingly, but a touch too loudly. _Nervous. Trying to goad me into overreaction, but probably aware that I could break her arm and put her through the wall. She's heard the stories: Azkaban, Lockhart, Macadam, Göreme, … and now Siberia, although the _Prophet's_ making rather more out of that than they should, considering there wasn't even a fight._

Three people rescued and six Dementors destroyed - no casualties, but the media had been making it out to be a full-scale war with Russia, hyping up the conflict. Harry's doing, although she couldn't imagine why he wanted _more_ tension with them.

So what did Hood want?

"Certainly, Auror Hood," she answered. _A trap? She's certainly in Malfoy's target demographics. He collects the bigoted, the aggrieved, and the libertarian - and Hood has a grudge. Hm. No. I think that game's fairly blown, and Draco must know it. No point in trying to trap me. Maybe the Three? Heck, Hood could _be_ one of the Three… if they even really exist, and it wasn't some ruse of Tineagar's._

Even if it was a trap, it had to be admitted that the auror posed only a small threat. Really, Hermione should be so lucky… an attempt to trap or assassinate her would be one of the best ways to get new information. And it was likely to backfire - who knows how many people were swayed over to their side by the attempting bombing in Diagon Alley?

Hermione turned slightly to Hyori and Susie, who had accompanied her. "They'll be coming with me," she said to Hood. Hyori had her arms folded in front of her, one hand in her sleeve where she was concealing her own drawn wand, while Susie had her bubbler in hand.

"Fine. This way," said Hood, gesturing to the elevator. "DMLE's TT-8."

"The very height of politeness, isn't it?" muttered Susie, as Hermione and the Returned walked as directed.

Upon arriving at the claustrophobically low-ceilinged room, however, Hermione found only a familiar-looking older witch with thinning hair and a dark-skinned wizard with a sheaf of parchments sitting at a table. Hood walked in behind Hermione, and closed the door behind them.

Hermione sat at the table across from the witch and wizard, and Susie and Hyori sat on either side of her. Hood chose not to sit next to either them, nor across from them, but instead at a third side of the table. She settled into her seat, and cleared her throat.

"Ms. Granger, this is-"

The door to the room opened, and a second auror entered. Hermione didn't recognize this wizard, who was extremely short and had slightly pointed ears - goblin blood, somewhere down the line. "Sorry, sorry," he said, moving quickly to sit next to Hood and settling his own pile of parchment in front of him.

"Ms. Granger, this is Wilhelmina Lazenby, the proprietor of Billie's Bobbing Bubbies. She's complained about the damages you did to her establishment, and we thought we'd ask you in here as a courtesy," said Hood, indicating the woman across from Hermione. Lazenby had an unhappy look on her face, and stared down at the table sullenly.

"I'm sure you could have told me as much, and I'd have been happy to come along, Auror Hood," said Hermione, lightly. She smiled, despite her irritation. Hood had perhaps been hoping Hermione would refuse.

"Hortense, knock it off," said the other auror. "Mukwooru's toe, this is Hermione Granger!" He shook his head. He had shaggy brown hair and a nice smile. "I'm Auror Gerald Podrut, Ms. Granger."

"If you're quite done, there are things to settle. Under what authority was Ms. Granger acting when she broke into the basement of my client's business, doing severe damage to property in the meantime?" interrupted the wizard to Lazenby's right.

"I was invited by the DMLE because of my special skill-set," said Hermione. "The DMLE's charter permits it to request or hire the services of outside consultants, as necessary."

"That is intended for exorcists, herbologists, and other experts - not a one-witch wrecking crew!" objected the lawyer. She couldn't tell if he was really outraged, or if it was calculated.

"Even if you were right," said Gerald, with a voice slightly higher than normal, "I think we can be realistic and say that the Wizengamot would happily pass any law Ms. Granger needed to continue to help the aurors… I understand she's been invaluable. Or so Mr. Diggory has said."

"Ridiculous," muttered the lawyer. Hood said nothing.

"Are you going to file claims, Madame Lazenby?" asked Gerald.

Her lawyer answered for his silent client, snapping, "Of course we'll file claims! My client's business has been ruined - half the floor is torn apart!"

"And the Goddess has a deep vault, you figure, eh?" said Gerald. He glanced over at Hermione. "Er, sorry."

"Quite all right, you lovely bloke," said Susie, smiling.

"Indeed it is," agreed Hermione. "But I don't think there's any need for a hearing before a low court."

"Or an appeal to the Wizengamot," said Susie, pointedly. She leaned back in her chair, and smiled.

"We can certainly come to terms," said Hermione. She glanced over at Hood, and thought for a long moment. There was an opportunity, here.

_Just a friend, waiting to be made._

"Could we speak for a moment, Auror Hood? Nothing terrible, just have a quick question?"

Hood frowned. The muscular auror rose from her chair, though, and jerked her head to indicate the hallway. "Fine."

Stepping out after her, Hermione closed the door behind them. "Auror Hood, let us be frank. Your career has gone nowhere for quite a while… ever since Azkaban. Am I right?"

Hood didn't reply immediately. She crossed her arms and stared intently at Hermione. Hermione could see that Hood was trying to figure out Hermione's motives: if it was genuine or a trick… or even just cruelty for its own sake. But slowly, the auror replied, "It's been slow."

"May I help you here, then? Am I right in thinking that you'd like to track down the rest of Geoffrey Gem's suppliers and vendors? I know the DMLE made good inroads into that Euphoric Ring last month, but I bet you didn't get half of the crooks, and you know it."

Hood raised an eyebrow. " 'Crooks?' We got a good many of them, don't worry, and the rest will follow."

"If I give you a way to track down most of the people who have been supplying and selling those phials of potion, will that help you?" asked Hermione.

The response was measured again, but less hostile. "We've already tried the Substantiation Charm on his ingredients, and got little we could use."

"I have a special Muggle method," said Hermione, smiling genuinely now. "Don't roll your eyes - it'll work."

"You do that, and we roll up the rest of that ring…" said Hood, considering. "Why? You have friends enough, and there's no favor I could do you that would matter."

"Auror Hood, believe me when I say that what matters most to me is doing the right thing. I know that sounds… well, phoney or hackneyed, or something." Hermione shrugged. "But it's true."

When you had a magical unicorn aura of innocence, you could get away with a lot of naive sentiments.

"All right," said Hood, carefully. She cocked her head to the side, uncertain.

"Then let me tell you about something called 'fingerprints,' " said Hermione, "and we can call in another expert to help you and the DMLE out."

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_NOTE: Yes, I know that Novaya Zemlya is not in Siberia. Sloppy reporting, really._


	30. Delta V Over Delta T

_April 29th, 1999_

_11:39 a.m._

_John Snow Center for Medicine and Tower School of Doubt (The Tower)_

Harry had spent years nurturing the Honourable, building them as the only credible opposition with careful restraint of government forces and strategic deployment of his resources. Even the propaganda had required considerable planning, as they staged high-profile debates to legitimize their opponents - though they were also rigged for the Tower's success, to preserve his own prestige - even as he resisted applying a more general rhetorical pressure. Agents and double agents and triple agents infiltrated both groups, under the guidance of a respective spymaster (Amycus Carrow and Mad-Eye Moody). It reminded him of the old battles with Chaos Legion, in a way.

Even when the focus turned outward to other states, Harry was confident he'd been in control, guiding the pell-mell chaos of a thousand disparate interests towards his intended goals. It had been difficult, briefly, when he'd worried that the Council of Westphalia would be too irrational - when there was a moment that the relentless drumbeat of Draco's pamphleting and scheming might unite a coalition of serious strength. But that didn't happen. The Americas would join the Treaty for Health and Life, to which half of Africa and most of Europe already belonged, while a handful of bad actors - Cappadocia, Caucasus, Russia, and the Sawad states - remained his useful idiots. They were the international analogue of the Malfoys and the Honourable: prestigious and loud enough to appear a threat, without ever actually posing a challenge.

It was years of indirect work, crafting his own enemy with an invisible hand, until the Honourable were the voice of an international coalition on the brink of war.

And Hermione Jean Granger had carved a bloody deity-shaped swath through the whole delicate operation. In a week and a half. Because she actually cared and thought it was worth doing, and he had turned her loose to preserve his facade.

Harry had known it would happen. But so_ fast_…

He sighed, and shoved aside the papers and parchments in front of him. The little reading room, X, was scattered with them. More were tacked to cork strips on the stone walls, and still others were simply gathered into heaps on any available surface, including the golden dodecahedrons and slowly-spinning clocks and all the other alarms. The papers were charts and diagrams and lists and notes and memos and everything else, and most all of it was covered with dust and broken bits of mechanical pencil lead. And all of it, at the moment, was useless.

He rubbed his eyes. There had been a moment, long ago, when he'd realized just how poor his skills as a rationalist really were. Human beings were force multipliers, and so one of the most powerful abilities for any human - or at least one who was trying to achieve something ambitious - was being able to predict how other humans would act. That had been the secret of Voldemort's power, more than any other bit of cleverness. The ancient lore of Salazar Slytherin, the consummate planning, the inhuman skill on the field of battle - they all ultimately paled in comparison with Voldemort's skill at predicting the behavior of others. And Harry… well, Harry was doing his best, but he was worried it just wasn't good enough.

So much depended on the behavior of one woman.

Harry stood up, and went to the standing wardrobe. He pulled on the comfortable terrycloth robe from within, and spent a few moments considering how he wanted to face the afternoon. Wizard's robes, he supposed. Muggle clothing increasingly felt like he was… putting on a costume, or something. He put his wand to the robe and began to change it.

_Or maybe it's just that picking out my own Muggle clothing reminds me of Mum and Dad, and when I first started insisting on making my own clothing choices. I was five, and I picked a pair of coveralls, and I wore them everywhere for two weeks. _It had seemed to make sense, he remembered. _"Mum, see? I don't have to try to match or put on new things to go to school or to Grandma's. It's smarter."_

He grinned at the thought, but it was followed almost as quickly by a pang of regret. The changing robe in his hand blurred for an instant, but he blinked rapidly, and finished the transfiguration. Plain and formal black robes, suitable for meeting important people. Harry cleared his throat, and put his gloved right hand to the garment. He held the Stone of Permanency until he felt it make a subtle shift, and then he got dressed.

_Need to get my head on straight_, he thought_. At least clinic duty this morning was easy enough… grateful patients, competent healers, and every auror in their place._ It left him in a good frame of mind for the afternoon. First, he was meeting Hermione and some of her eerie hollow-eyed Returned. That would be awkward, but he was actually looking forward to it. It had been two weeks since their argument and her agreement to go after the Honourable in earnest, when she'd told him that she'd figured out his game. He almost grinned again, at that thought, despite himself. She was an important part of his life, and it was painful to be without her counsel.

After that, he'd be seeing Reg Hig. The American had struck a deal with Hermione for her support on new final terms for a Council endorsement of the Treaty for Health and Life, setting her up as Harry's proxy. It had been a _very _good deal for the Tower, considering that it had cost Harry nothing from his policy preferences. Hermione had done well - probably better than he could have, considering Hig's lingering suspicion and her own bargaining skills, keen thinking, supernatural innocence, and natural beauty. He'd been happy to agree to it, regardless of the astronomically higher sum of money it would cost the Tower. Money meant little.

Actually, the ill-favoured little American was probably already here, snooping around and trying to plant a listening device in every vase, drawer, and shoe. That was going to be a problem, really. An ethical problem. Just how many rules and civil liberties could Harry discard in the name of his end goals? But on the other hand, it was hard to explain milquetoast ethical hesitancy to the accumulated corpses of those unfortunate dead who were just missing out on their chance at immortality (did that make them the unluckiest generation?). Warrants and privacy were important, but try telling that to a mourning child.

_What I really need_, he thought, and not for the first time, _is psychohistory. A statistical science to predict the movements of multitudes. _He supposed he was already trying to be Hari Seldon, in his own clumsy way.

Harry straightened his robes, and sighed again. _Time for a difficult conversation. "Great job with crushing my enemies, Hermione! Hey, I wonder if you would be willing to do a _worse _job for a while, so I can provoke the world to the brink of war and finish polarizing the international scene, in preparation for a final decisive confrontation? I know you have the acting ability of a tangerine, but you can do that, right?"_

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

When Harry walked in, he saw that he was the last one to arrive. Moody, Bones, Hermione, and two of her Returned were all already there with tea and a tray of sandwiches. They were all laughing about something Moody had said. The chuckles died down as Harry entered, although Hermione still smiled broadly.

The goblin Urg was gathering up pieces of a broken teacup with careful fingers, his face solemn as he made them into a neat pile on one side of the tray. He also worked in Material Methods, but Harry had noticed that he wasn't sociable with the other goblins. His two-year stay in Azkaban had scarred him, even though so much time had passed and even though he was probably lucky to still be alive. As Harry remembered, he'd once gotten into a fight with a witch with whom he was suspected of having a romantic involvement; given the shape of the Wizengamot and its broad sensibilities about purity, Urg only barely escaped a sentence of the Kiss.

Odette Charlevoix, the French witch, was sitting quietly with her hands in her lap. He knew that her fingers were still covered in angry-looking red scars - Hermione had warned him not to ask her if she wanted that fixed - but she wasn't usually self-conscious about it. On the other hand, she'd always seemed more emotional than the rest of Hermione's group, who tended to be a bit deadened by their time in hell, and Moody had told him that she was actually moving out of the Powis settlement where the rest of the Returned lived in their extendable-space tents. She and the American Esther were going to be living together. Harry wasn't sure if it was platonic or more intimate, but it was promising that they felt ready to take such steps. It meant there might be hope for all of them, even the more damaged-seeming Simon or Urg, in the fullness of time.

The Chief Warlock and Supreme Mugwump, Amelia Bones, was leaning back in her chair and looking intently at Harry as he entered. She didn't look angry, only alert, with a raptor's sharp gaze fixed on him. He wondered how much she knew… and how much more she'd guessed. Bones was cunning and clever when it came to politics, but the scope of her attentions was always limited. She'd been one of Dumbledore's lieutenants, and she was most comfortable in that role - even though the scale of that lieutenancy encompassed manipulating national and global politics of surprising complexity.

Harry had already seen Moody that day, since it was an even-numbered day. He'd put the former auror in the body of a heavy-shouldered and whiskered older man for the intrusion attempt, leaving a hollow space in the body's stomach for Moody to try to smuggle in a Time-Turner wrapped in Lovegood Leaf. It hadn't worked, and he'd confirmed Moody's identity in the clinic an hour later when they brought in his stunned form. Now the Security Chief was sipping on tea, looking at Hermione in a fond way.

And Hermione. She was wearing a long red dress and a small jacket and her green-and-gold necklace, and she looked radiantly beautiful. Even without her magical nature, she would have been stunning. Harry had spent an excessive amount of time worrying about the consequences of the rituals that had sealed the magical natures of a unicorn and a mountain troll into her flesh, but it seemed as though it had yielded nothing but positive results. It was similar, he supposed, to the difference between modern humans and those of a few centuries ago. Good nutrition and medicine meant that the modern person's body grew closer to its genetic potential and needed to spend fewer resources on fighting disease; Hermione had simply received a supercharged version of the effect. Just as she was hitting her growth spurt and growing into the person she would become, her metabolism had been literally perfected. She never experienced a moment of nutrient deficiency or illness, either, so she grew to be tall and well-proportioned. She was the new human… the archetype whose abilities they were working on making accessible to all, over in the Advancement Agency.

She was still smiling as she turned to look at him, and he felt the tension melt from his shoulders. She wasn't still angry. He'd better apologize as soon as he could, anyway.

He stood there for a moment, quiet, and her smile gradually faded into an uncertain frown. Finally, he spoke up.

"What was Billie's like? Wait, did you leave any of it standing?"

She smiled again, and a small part of him was relieved at the change from smile to frown to smile, and he knew it was because she cared about him. _Did she ever end up going out with Cedric?_

"I punched through the door. It actually wasn't anything like you'd expect, because the door got stuck on my arm, and I felt rather less than dignified as I tried to shake it off for a minute. But I don't think anyone but Hedley noticed," she said, and her eyes sparkled.

_Hedley… ah, Kwannon. How does she get on a first-name basis with people like that in the span of ten minutes? _It was the aura, he decided.

"Sharp one, her," said Moody. His voice sounded phlegmy and strange - Harry had needed to move the organs around some, and both lungs in the transfigured body had needed to be the same size to fit in the smuggled device. The alteration had an unexpected effect on the sound of the man's voice. "There was a time when she and I were out at the ruins of Sontag, and James the Merciless had laid a trap for us with a portkey in the shape of a golden box. 'Don't touch that,' she said. I wasn't so stupid, of course, but few enough would have had wits enough to warn me."

" 'James the Merciless'?" said Bones, turning to stare at Moody. "You made that up."

"Records are sealed. Can't help you," said Moody, gruffly. He turned his chair deliberately away, and Hermione, Harry, and Bones broke into laughter.

Harry slid into his seat. That had been an awkward moment avoided. "Sorry, I'm late, everyone. Someone's always late, though, and it means the people on time get to spend a few moments joking and making up stories about imaginary Dark Wizards."

"Not making it up," said Moody, turning up his nose again and looking away, as though pouting. Hermione snorted.

Urg and Charlevoix watched, quietly. The goblin finished assembling the broken pieces of teacup and settled back into his seat. Charlevoix just watched everyone with her soft brown eyes.

"To business, though?" said Harry. He didn't have an agenda for this one, but there were some things they needed to get through. There was always time pressure - in an hour he needed to be back in the clinic, to finalize the afternoon healings. Every healer stuck waiting around, sustaining their transfigurations, was a healer not busy on a new patient. _Now that I think about it, I should remember to schedule a new training course on triage. We've learned to lean too heavily on transfiguration… no one should be spending three hours sustaining a transfiguration for some broken bones, when a standard healing charm would have done for them. _He called a notepad and mechanical pencil from his ever-present pouch, and made a note.

"We should, I believe, offer congratulations to Ms. Granger," said Bones. "She has done in days what we have been trying to do for years." Her comment had an ironic tint, and Moody made an audible huff. "Two-dozen people in custody over the Euphoric Elixir distribution alone, and something like half of the Honourable taken off the street. We'll have to let most of them go, of course, but they're marked with that, now."

"No," Harry said. "Keep everyone associated with the Euphoria, but of the rest, only file against Gregor. He needs to learn a lesson, since this is the fifth time he's come close to making a tragic mistake. But no one else should suffer just for their differences of opinion. That's not how you build a free society."

Bones stiffened at the last comment. Harry thought about what he'd said, but before he could correct himself, Moody replied, "There hasn't been a truly free vote in the Wizengamot for centuries, and we've not changed that. Be realistic, Harry, and keep Draco's people for at least a few months. Or release them with those American gadgets stuffed inside of a cuff somewhere."

"Everlasting Eyes," offered Urg in a guttural croak.

"Aye, them. But remember your goals… remember that this is a game of lives, Harry," said Moody. All levity had faded. Harry knew that Alastor Moody didn't think scruples had much of a place in planning of this level, and had little patience for idealists who were naive enough to think they could win without getting their hands dirty.

"Dumbledore showed us that we don't need to sacrifice ourselves in the rush to win, like Voldemort did," said Harry. "That's why Narcissa is alive."

Moody shot back, almost without a pause, "And Narcissa is why Russia joined the Independents, so maybe Albus would be rethinking his decision right about now. It was you who told me that we would regret every day that we let pass without bringing more people into the Tower, since that was another day that people would die."

" 'Shut up and do the math' is the expression, I think," added Bones. She was quoting Harry. The atmosphere of the room had changed, suddenly.

_They've been stewing over this and dropping hints for a long time. It's probably best they speak their piece now._

"I know you have a plan for two neat groups, and then there's just one decisive conflict, and all is well, Harry. But need we forget: the Honourable and their Treaty of Independence are not our only concern. Remember the Three. We still don't know what they want or who they are, except that they were cultivating that American and her little army of Westphalians for some secret purpose," continued Bones. Hermione's smile was gone, now, and she looked sad. No… she looked _disappointed_. "You have spent years on your plan for Malfoy and her son. And maybe it was the best way. Certainly, no one expected Amycus Carrow to have survived Voldemort's return, and Carrow's surprising return could have led him to form his own group of pureblood idiots, rather than joining the Malfoys. And there would have been others. But it might have taken us less time to crush them out, one by one, than we have spent in raising up the Honourable."

"I'm not worried about Carrow," said Moody, "but she's right. We could roll up their whole organization in one month. Maybe two. I could do it _alone_. Hermione has done half the work in a week."

"It's not just the Three," said Hermione, breaking in. "I mean, yes, I'm worried about them… Tineagar had spells I've never seen before or since. Mafalda told me that the last time that flaming chariot spell was reported - the one that whisked Tineagar right out from among Anti-Disapparation Jinxes - was seven hundred years ago. But there's also… well, sorry, Urg? Could you?"

"Ackle and Curd are rising," said the goblin, simply. "I have been in both the Urgod Ur and the Burgod Bur these past weeks, and there are weapons to be found. A stockpile forged at the Jurg Hod in Ackle, all in a rush over a month, and Curd's Hingrabst is under guard where there have never been guards. Doors are closed to me."

"Is it serious?" asked Moody. He blinked his body's heavy-lidded eyes, as though trying to make himself more alert. He'd been burning the candle at both ends for too long, Harry thought. Hopefully he'd soon be able to take a good rest.

"Doors are closed to me," repeated Urg. "We will-workers are close, and have been so for a thousand years."

_At least he holds less of a grudge than Haddad. _That _one would be creating some awkward analogy designed to remind us that wizards were the ones who healed the breach between Curd and Ackle with the Edict of Hortensius._

"But you…" Bones began, then paused. She gave a slight twist of her mouth, then simply forged ahead. "But you are not like the rest of your people… hasn't there been some distrust since you got out of Azkaban?"

"Ever since he was _broken out_ of Azkaban," Hermione said, her voice quiet but insistent, "Urg has been as much a part of his people as he ever was."

"He was our eyes and ears when we were working out the alteration in the Treatment in the Environs," said Harry. It was true. Without Urg, Harry would have been much more hesitant to give goblins a seat in the Wizengamot in the new positions of "Tribune," and it might have been years before they felt confident in giving them access to wands once again. The parallels to Muggle history were uncomfortable, but a few more years of injustice would have been an acceptable price if a gradual emancipation were necessary for the sake of safety. It now appeared that their confidence in the goblin might have been misplaced.

"Is this a move by Malfoy?" asked Bones. She answered herself almost in the same instant, and she and Moody said, "No," in unison. "He makes unlikely friends these days, but the goblins would sooner cut off their ear-tips than ally with him," she added. "Not him. But that's a serious threat." She didn't add any more. They all knew their history. _This _Urg was named for the warlord Urg the Unclean, who'd led the goblin army that wiped out Sontag.

_Then it really is time for this cold war to end. They're right about the Three, and their unknown threat - if they do pose a threat at all - and now the goblins… no. It's time._

"Then we should move quickly," said Harry. "We've pushed the Free States and Nigeria and the Americas to a decision, and that should carry us through the rest of Africa and the Ten Thousand." Bones seemed doubtful, but she didn't disagree. "You've all pushed me to act - for _years_ telling me that I should crack down and move hard on the Honourable. Well, let's do it. Hermione, we're going to put twenty - no, forty aurors under your command. Or your Returned, or whoever you want."

"Tonks said she was thinking about going back to being an auror," said Hermione. "It will be more official and look better if she has charge of that." Her face was calm, but Harry paused for a moment and shot her a questioning look. _Are you all right about that? _Tonks was one of the people closest to Hermione, and one of the few members of her group that she could really talk to.

Hermione just gave a tiny shake of her head, and he dropped it for the moment.

"Fine. But pile the pressure on. Bring some Tower aurors and any other of our staff you need, and use all the things we've kept our own. I heard you taught the DMLE about fingerprinting - bring in every trick you can think of, and get ahold of every last Honourable you can manage in the next twelve hours," Harry said. He could hear the hardness in his own voice, and he couldn't deny that there was a cathartic pleasure to ordering these long-delayed actions.

He turned to Bones. "Russia's Thunderer called a conclave of the Domovoi. They're angry about Hermione's strike in Siberia and the loss of their Dementors. That's not enough. Make Cappadocia and the Caucasus angry. Let slip that the Seyhan fellow isn't really dead, and supply them some proof, if you have to. And send a special delegation to Cyprus and make a speech about our close national ties." He thought for a second, then went on. "We need more security at the RCP and at all Poles. Call in everyone off duty or on leave that we can get. Get Percy to help. Triple pay for the duty, or whatever we need to pay."

Moody whistled, low and impressed. "Not half measures."

"If we're going to do this, then it needs to be over in as short a time as possible," Harry said. "What day is it?" He thought for a moment. "April 30th, okay." The date gave him pause, and he and Hermione exchanged looks, but he forged on. "Okay, I want the first strikes to hit them tonight, Hermione. And get that speech and the Seyhan leak out there within a few hours, Amelia." Bones nodded, visibly surprised. "Where's Hig? Is he here already, Moody?"

The former auror barked a fleshy laugh. "He is! Probably trying to recruit our people and smuggle them out in his pocket."

"Get him in here, he can help with this. They have aurors and portkeys - get them on to help with reinforcing our people at non-vital weak spots. And get Kraeme to arrange double the usual bubblers and Extendable Ears - I want free and open communications, all day. And get some owls to the Receiving Room and ready to go. Then I expect you'll have your own business to manage, and that's almost as important." The ideas and orders were coming in a rush now, and Harry felt exhilarated - almost breathless. "I want this done by evening - I want to hit them so hard that they realize just how much we've been holding back. If we're going to do this, then it has to be so spectacular that we never have to do it again. When the sun rises tomorrow, I want the Honourable wiped out and the Independents so thoroughly cowed that this is ended completely."

_Their fear must be stronger than their hate._

"But what are we doing?" asked Charlevoix, who had been sitting silently. Her soft lilt interrupted the rising tide of energy, and everyone turned to her. "What is it you want?"

"War," said Harry. "Make a war."


	31. Harry and the Centaurs Argue Philosophy

_Salor Sprig, The Forbidden Forest, Scotland_

_September 10th, 1995_

_Four years before the present_

When a centaur is young, he immerses himself in knowledge and study. The centaurs have an ancient culture, unified between the world's seven great herds and stretching back in an unbroken chain into the distant past. It has survived to this day only because it is a combination of one rigid precept and a yielding openness to new ideas. There is no debate over the Unforked Path - but that is the _only_ thing not open to discussion. Everything else - life and death and everything in between - is open to dispute and change.

The Unforked Path includes a strong education in all the gathered wisdom of centaurs from the ages, gleaned from the stars and the wizards and the Muggles, but each centaur eventually tends to find a framework that suits them best. For practical purposes, in fact, each herd is often said to be divided into different _naʼniłkaadí_. This Muggle word, which has been appropriated and exported to centaurs all over the world, actually means "herd" as well, confusingly enough. The centaurs use it to describe particular schools of thought.

The Kachina herd, now gone, popularized the term when they first struggled to articulate what they considered wholesale errors in the fundamental worldview of their Muggle enemies, the Navajo. But that is a sad tale for another time.

The young Harry Potter-Evans-Verres, only a few years into his power and stinging from the fresh defeat of the International Statute for Health and Life on the floor of the Confederation, has come to visit the Salor Sprig in the Forbidden Forest. He has an important request.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

"I need help," said Harry. The teenager had shaggy hair that he kept pushed to the side, and green eyes that were attentive and thoughtful, lingering on details. Their contemplative care reflected the rapid workings of the mind behind them.

"You are unfair," said Roonwit. "You speak within a context which is extremely vast, old, firmly established, rooted in a network of conventions - a clear statement that places demands on us by virtue of that context. To speak of 'need' and 'help' - we cannot separate such things from their primal origin, and it is unfair to rely on that privileging - on that binary. It makes demands on us separate from the merits of your arguments, by using language with deep implications from the usual context for those spoken words."

Roonwit was a young centaur, and accounted small among his kind, yet he towered over Harry and every emphatic thump of his hoof reminded the wizard of the pure physical power of the creature. It was an uncomfortable reminder of a past tragedy - a tragedy he'd remedied, to be sure, but one with a lingering sting.

"Language has context like everything has context," Harry replied, after taking a moment to parse the complicated accusation. "I think trying to avoid a direct request would be a mistake, and only further rely on that unavoidable 'primal' context." He thought for a moment longer. "It's an appropriate context, anyway - we _are_ talking about life and death."

_I recognize some of this language… this is Muggle philosophy. _Harry glanced at the bark shacks that were set up in the clearing - the only things here, in fact, beyond the sacred sapling in the center. _Where do they get Muggle books? Do they have some sort of magic or artifacts that enable them to disguise themselves, or do they have intermediaries? _This must be known to someone in Magical Creatures, but Harry hadn't known to ask. He'd have to find out. He wished he could spend the time to learn those things for himself, but just this single meeting had been difficult. To make it happen, he'd needed to rely on some of the contacts Dumbledore had left him, as well as an outstanding blood debt. He was fascinated: they seemed like an entire civilization of philosophers. On the other hand, this conversation was proving that some strands of thought were a trifle too dense for pleasurable discourse.

"Roonwit holds you to an account that is perhaps overstated in terms of intention, but your intentions are irrelevant. State your needs and ply your arguments, and let us make our choices," rumbled Aosta. The dark bay's skin color was almost the same as her coat, which made her unusually unified in a crowd of centaurs (who were usually two-toned). It suited the elder's temperament, which was singularly calm.

Glenstorm, standing next to Aosta, nodded his agreement. He had his worry beads in one hand, and had been idly rubbing them with a broad thumb since the beginning of the conversation.

"My needs…" Harry rubbed his forehead in frustration, then remembered himself. He cleared his throat. "I need your assistance in locating some items of power that are hidden from all scrying or location, but not - I think - from divination and the implications of prophecy. It's the only way to keep the Dark Lord Voldemort imprisoned, and the world safe."

"When something has an origin, its destruction is ordained at that moment, wizardling," said Glenstorm. "Even if the stars did not promise a coming recompense when the debt of creation is fulfilled, this would be true. In the primal chaos, infinite worlds have been created and destroyed. So it will continue to be. But you should know better than to come before us in such a way: you are here only on the sufferance of Firenze and in acknowledgement of his own debt... to you. Otherwise, we could not ignore that you are the one who will bring this about. The stars scream at the future, and no centaur can ignore it." The centaur's voice was mild, but there were brittle depths beneath it.

"Yes," said Roonwit, glancing over at the two elders, and then back at Harry, nodding. "We cannot deny you a hearing, not after learning of that shame or of your own nobility. But destruction is not an exterior force. The ending of a system predicated on inexactness, as with our world where idea and reality are eternally at odds, necessitates that destruction lies in an eccentric center of all things, in a corner whose eccentricity assures the solid concentration of the system, participating in the construction of what it, at the same time, threatens to deconstruct." The centaur's tail flicked back and forth, thoughtfully. He added, almost as an afterthought, "One might then be inclined to reach this conclusion: deconstruction is not an operation that supervenes afterwards, from the outside, one fine day. It is always already at work in a thing."

"Muggles have discovered a similar sort of idea… a rule that nature seems to follow, called the Second Law of Thermodynamics," said Harry. "It states that any closed system tends towards chaos, eventually. But," and here he held up a finger, "outside influence can sustain it. Consider yourselves that outside influence, and sustain the world."

Harry felt a moment's unsettledness for abusing a scientific principle so badly as to twist it into metaphor. It made him feel like he needed a bath._ But this isn't real discussion of reality… this is argument by analogy and rhetoric, and we're all secretly agreed on that. Otherwise we'd be discussing facts, not… whatever you'd call this. Framing, I suppose. I think I can engage on these terms. _He took a moment to consider if that was a Voldemort thought, but decided it wasn't. They set the terms of debate, after all, so it was no evil to abide by them.

Aosta shook her head. Her hair was in a beautiful, long ponytail tied back with jute twine, strikingly similar (certainly intentionally so?) to her tail. Harry kept his eyes on it and on her face, which was difficult - considering her height and the fact that centaurs go unclothed. "We are not blind to the world, and it is plain enough that there is suffering everywhere. We could not act to bring about that final chaos, especially not if it would yield a void for a time. The lack of pain is preferable."

_Utilitarianism, sort of? Some sort of consequentialism, anyway. _Harry felt like he had been dropped unprepared into a pit of rabid Philosophy 101 undergrads._ Okay, so how do I prove that there is more pleasure than pain in the world, making saving it a net good and ethical imperative? Will they accept statistics?_

"It would not even be the worst of fates," agreed Roonwit. "The worst violence occurs when the _other," _he said, leaning on the word, _"_to which one is related is completely appropriated to or completely in oneself. It is this complete exclusion that makes this violence the worst violence - there is no limit to it, since it makes reality and idea entirely subsumed in the other in sovereign unity."

"You can't mean that the world would be better destroyed. If you did, and also thought helping me might hurry up that end, well… then you'd be obligated to help me for that reason, instead," Harry said, adapting as best he could to the different strains of argument. No, it was more than that… the outright different strains of _language_. Different worldviews. They didn't agree with each other on fundamental principles - virtue ethics or consequentialism - so how could he convince them of anything?

"No, I don't mean that," said Roonwit. "To take a direct hand in assisting you… we could not do that. But the shape of civil society, the shape of the law, is always rooted in violence. To help you would be to participate in that violence, or worse, be a motivating force behind it. It is bad enough that we inhabit the decision and its context. Neither do we oppose you, or endorse Firenze's error. We are obligated to assist or oppose you, but it is…"

"Undecidable?" Harry offered, hoping he was guessing wrong.

"Yes," said Roonwit, smiling. He clopped a hoof down, nodding.

_Okay, time to try the other two. It's really more like trying to guess a code than making an argument._

Really, this was a good reminder of why policy debates in Parliament tended towards appeals to emotion, attacks on the messenger, and other fallacies.

"Would you agree, then," he said to Glenstorm, "that the world is better off destroyed? And that a virtuous being is the sort who would let that happen?"

"There is no real destruction," replied the blue roan. His worry beads clicked in one hand as he lowered them to his side. "There are undoubtedly an infinite number of worlds, and we have a union with all of them. But I will not hide in the Athenian solution. No, it would not be a good thing, and the virtuous would oppose it. But we return to the same issue, of which you have argued both sides like a confused coiner: assisting you would hasten stardeath and world-end, not prevent it. Your kind has access to visions of the future, in your crude way - do not your own people tell you this?"

_No prophecies, not anymore. _Harry had entered the Hall of Prophecy, three years ago, only to find it ruined - a chaos of shattered crystal, splintered shelves, and a thick haze of magically-suspended dust. Dumbledore had been true to his word, and at some unknown point he had eradicated the facility... and had worked to hide that fact, ever since. One of the greatest works of magic in the world had been undone, and the prophecies of Britain could no longer be hoarded and studied. It had been one of the powers that made Britain dominant in the magical world for centuries, for no other nation had its like. Its loss was a national tragedy. Only the old works survived, locked in their special vault of obdurate slade from the Urist Quarry in Hungary: the hundred-odd prophecies that had been individually preserved by independent means. Most of them were shockingly ancient, said to date back before Merlin's era, but there were also some dozens of more modern imported prophecies, and a few British ones that had been doubly preserved, for whatever reason. _ Scorpion and archer, locked beyond return..._

"In a way. But that makes it all the more important that the magical items I need be found, so that the 'world-end' can be of a qualitatively different sort," said Harry. "The world might end in many ways… one of them is by growing into something bigger and better."

"There is something of everything in everything else, and so there is never any motion, and never any change," said Glenstorm, shaking his head. "Withall, a good creature must prevent suffering… but it is wisdom to remember that failure is no one's fault. Indeed, in the event that failure is certain - and the stars speak only of what _will_ happen, and give no conditions - a good creature must vouchsafe his own virtue. Firenze has rightly said that we cannot interfere with the philosopher-kings of wizardkind or else it will sully our own hooves." The centaur paused, shaking his head, and added, "Although he is late-come to this advice, as you know."

_I don't even know whether or not that's ingratitude. "He's a Platonic-style dictator I failed to murder and who brought me back to life with a fantastic cover story and who plans to defeat war, pain, and death, so maybe let's not get in his way… but definitely don't help him or anything."_

Harry glanced at Aosta and Roonwit, to see if they agreed. If they had a common position in this outcome of their independent strains of reasoning - that non-interference was ethically necessary to keep their hands clean from an inevitable evil - then he could stop talking in circles and tackle that single idea.

"I agree with Elder Glenstorm," said Roonwit. "But I think that we should not fool ourselves, Elder, into thinking that the decision not to interfere is not itself a form of interference. It will send signals, and it will cause consequences. We make the decision within the structures of society - world society, not wizarding - that we are forced to inhabit. We must do so, or else any decision is not possible or effective, nor can they take accurate aim, except by inhabiting those structures. Inhabiting them in a _certain way_, an aware way. We strive for goodness by stepping back, but the very act of deciding makes us involved… there is an eternal gap that follows us. The important thing is to know. One always inhabits, and all the more when one does not suspect it."

Aosta began to look mildly impatient by the end of this diatribe, but she was certainly used to it, and neither elder centaur looked inclined to interrupt their younger kinsman. Debate is sacred. Once he finished, though, she gave her own perspective with more practiced concision, restraining her kind's natural garrulousness.

"The end of this world is certain, as Glenstorm says," she said. "We have good evidence for this. I am unconvinced whether or not this is a good thing, or whether there can be a qualitative difference in that end, as you say, wizardling. I do not know about 'undecidable,' but I know that there is no compelling reason to dedicate effort to the cause if it would reduce our appreciation of the time we have left."

Harry felt like his brain was growing physically warm with exertion as he tried to track three independently-derived philosophical traditions and answer all of their objections simultaneously. If he had still been articulating interior voices, this would be the moment when he promised his brain a cookie.

"So, if I understand correctly, then," he finally said, rubbing his forehead again. "You, sir," he indicated Glenstorm with a gesture, "think that assisting me is wrong because the action wouldn't be the sort of thing a good person does. But may I suggest that this is simply displacing the real moment of assessment - restating it? The virtuous person is someone who does virtuous things. Choosing not to do something that will improve the world - make people happier, healthier, wealthier - is not the act of a virtuous person."

Glenstorm shook his head. "Except to the extent that the stars speak, we can't know the future. That means that virtue must come from within, not from what occurs. If I were to rescue a child from the tar, and then that child went on to commit murder later that day, I have still found virtue."

"So then the pivotal question is whether or not your own knowledge would lead you to believe that it is a virtuous action?" The centaur nodded, looking amused.

"Hold that thought," said Harry. He turned to Roonwit. "And you, sir. You believe that we can evaluate the world and decide on the ethical course of action, but that every action incorporates and stains us with the guilt of participating in systemic injustice. You think it's undecidable - but you do make ethical decisions on some things, and the way you do that is by determining the most ethical course, yes? If you agree that we're always inhabiting the inherent injustice of the world, even if we do nothing, then you want to either help or not, _depending on _whether it's the course that will improve the world? Do you agree?"

Roonwit said, "Yes, that is so, although I would challenge your use of this broad binary of 'agree.' It's a corruption of thought by language, since it commits one to the entire endorsement of an idea and eliminates all shade of question or doubt or uncertainty."

"But there's no way around the inherent injustice of language, including its privileged binaries, so at least we're aware of it," said Harry, hurriedly. "Okay, so in both cases we're at the question of fact."

He turned to Aosta. "You, madame. You-"

"The question of fact is the important thing," she said, interrupting him with a smile. "Does the action improve the world... that is the question."

_May you live to be queen and rule them all_, Harry thought, gratefully. He smiled back at her. _Well, not queen… whatever the equivalent would be. _As he recalled, they'd adopted the Russian model of regional representatives with a figurehead military leader. Hopefully Aosta's

naʼniłkaadí would gain disproportionate influence... that would be for the best. He wondered if there was any way he could help that happen. He made a mental note for later.

"Then we all agree," Harry said, stepping back a pace so that he didn't have to crane his neck so far, "that we're at the question of whether or not helping me locate these items of power is the most important thing. If it will improve the world, then you and yours should do it. Otherwise, you should not." He had to resist the urge to be rigorous and suggest they define "improve" and "important" and the other vague words they were using. That couldn't conceivably help him make his case.

The three centaurs glanced at each other, and then all three nodded in agreement.

"Okay," said Harry. He smiled. "Then I will explain. There are three things I need to locate. The Cup of Midnight, which can bind anyone who does not give the Cup their name, and which according to legend may actually already be broken. I need to confirm that or not. And the Cup of Dawn, also known as the Goblet of Fire, which can bind anyone whose name is cast within it. And the Resurrection Stone, one of the Deathly Hollows of the three Peverell brothers, which can transcend any barrier. The Goblet and the Stone were both in the possession of Lord Voldemort, and we haven't been able to locate them. They are very powerful, and too important to be left to chance."

"We know of all three devices," said Aosta. She glanced at Roonwit for confirmation, and the centaur nodded.

"I will tell you my intentions, and we will settle the question of fact, if you are willing?" Harry said. He marshalled his knowledge and his arguments and his wits. _A lot is riding on this. If I fail, I'll have to approach someone like Aosta more privately. And if that fails… well, I'll just have to try something else. _The thought of compulsion occurred to him, but he quashed it. That was a dark road to go down, and he wouldn't begin planning last resorts until he'd run out of every other idea.

Glenstorm's worry beads clicked. Aosta folded her arms in front of her chest, stern but receptive. And Roonwit listened eagerly.

"Well, then," Harry said. He cleared his throat, and checked the abacus in his pocket. Seventeen of the beads had moved, one per minute of this conversation. The hidden aurors ensuring the secrecy and privacy of this conversation were still on task and unmolested. "Here is my plan - or as much as I can tell you about it, anyway."


	32. Zero Sum

_April 29th, 1999_

_2:00 pm_

_John Snow Center for Medicine and Tower School of Doubt (The Tower)_

After some deliberation, Hermione had arranged herself in the Material Methods annex that had previously been used for the crowd watching the satellite launch. She'd been tempted to go to Powis, but it was too inconvenient for everyone else. Going to Powis would also have meant a risky move of Nikitas Seyhan - who would be a target, today - to some other location. Better to let Simon look after Nikitas and the others in secrecy and safety while the rest of the Returned marshalled at the Tower: Tonks, Urg, Hyori, Susie, Esther, and Charlevoix.

Cedric Diggory, Alastor Moody, and their immediate staff joined her and the Returned a half-hour later, and at some point - midway through sticking personnel lists on the wall with a wad of blue-tac - she'd suddenly realized that this had become the war room of the Tower and the Government. They were all prepared with ideas and plans; she, Cedric, and Alastor had spent months and years urging stronger action, even as the Malfoys' informal organization became the more structured Honourable and eventually began pushing their Treaty of Independence. Now she, Cedric, and Alastor had thrown themselves into an across-the-board assault on every aspect of the opposition, hoping to move with such speed that a bloodless war could be finished before the enemy even knew it had begun. Her task of coordinating forty aurors had turned into helping organize _everyone _in these hours - before she took the field herself, and left everything in the hands of Cedric and Alastor. Even with her help, they would have an incredibly complex task.

The war room was a welter of parchments and people, with runners sprinting in and out at irregular intervals. A massive table, swiftly transfigured into existence, had been joined by stools, chairs, desks, and anything else necessary for the moment.

Aurors had been called to duty from wherever they were with hasty Howlers and Patronus messages, and even a dozen retired aurors had been re-activated. The Hit Wizard squads were all recalled, the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol was called up, the Witch Watchers were put on alert and restationed, and every other department of the Ministry of Magic and the Tower were notified. Everyone useful and reliable was being urged into service, in a way not seen since Grindelwald's War.

_Not all we could have wished for, though,_ Hermione thought, as she mounted an updated list of the missing or unavailable on the wall. It was sorted by department, and it showed some serious gaps in their forces. Very nearly all the aurors and Hit Wizards were sorted and on duty, but a third of the Patrol hadn't answered their summons, and more than half the Witch Watchers weren't willing or able to report.

"Alastor," she said, turning around. "Have you seen this?" Moody looked up from the enormous table where he was working. He had a scowl on the face he was wearing, but neither his oft-changing features or his customary glower could hide his rough-edged pleasure in the situation.

"Yes, I've seen it. Not a bit of it surprising, and only half-complete," he said.

_Half-complete? It's been almost an hour, there aren't going to be many more stragglers. No, he means only half the work is done._

"You mean Malfoy agents in our ranks," she said, frowning. "You're right."

Hermione glanced at the other side of the room, where assignments were being sorted out. "We need three fake stations. Two obvious, and one subtle. Susie, Esther, and Ernst," she said, naming two of her Returned and one of Cedric's aides. The two witches and the hirsute young Ernst responded immediately, approaching with movements informed by urgency. "Get names from Alastor and pick two dummy assignments. Malfoy Manor and… oh, somewhere else pointless. Put the most obvious spies or people with weak knees at those places, except for one or two. Put those one or two on regular assignment at one of the priority locations, but assign someone trustworthy to stick to them, and tell someone _else_ trustworthy about that."

Glancing over at Alastor, she saw his scowl deepen. She smiled and held up a chiding finger. "I'm not done, Alastor!"

_Levels and levels_.

She turned back to the three assistants. "Put the rest of the suspicious lot in a third dummy location, and then tell half of them to watch the other half, and _then_ a random third of them to watch the other half watching the first half. And tell one last one of them that he's the only trustworthy one, and he needs to catch the rest of them. Then come up with something stressful for them… I don't know, see if Luna can spare any of her critters."

Ernst froze in confusion, but the other two were already in motion again. Susie dragged Ernst away with them by the sleeve, and began explaining matters to him in a whisper.

"Let's see Carrow figure that out," she said, turning back to Alastor. "Hard to plan a response or your own attack when you don't know who is your ally, who was a fair-weather friend, and who is taking this opportunity to switch sides."

He huffed. "Wouldn't hold up in a real war - it would collapse under the weight of all the logistics. More likely someone will slip up and a real mess will result than that you'd catch some real traitors."

"Tactics aren't strategy," Hermione replied, lightly, turning back to the list of the absent and raising a pencil to make notes. "It doesn't need to confuse the enemy for a year, just for a day." Despite everything, she was enjoying herself. If all went well, thousands more lives could be saved. For that matter, there was a good chance they'd look back on tonight as the night when the entire project of defeating death took a giant step forward.

She turned on her toe with a twirl and stepped over to the table. "So then, we'll need response squads. I'm not so worried about Honourable, but Harry, Reg, and Amelia are tweaking the nose of every Independent, and Russia was already talking about war." Those three and their own team of go-betweens and assistants were managing the unbelievably complicated political fallout from the day's actions. There was some danger, of course, but far more opportunity. Hig was pushing to have the Council officially endorse the Treaty for Health and Life that afternoon, which probably necessitated arranging that Councilor Strongbound and his allies be unavoidably detained for a few hours. This opened up an opportunity to make threats and promises to other key states around the world. If everything went well, the American agreement could snowball to a dozen other countries. After that, they'd be within striking distance of a majority of the Confederation - and a second try at an International Statute for Health and Life.

She went on. "The Returned and I will be out the door within the hour, which will leave you and Cedric to coordinate here." She gestured over at the handsome Head of the DMLE, who was scribbling parchment notes furiously, handing them to an aide with curt instructions, listening to her all the while. "I thought we'd best do with the four Hit Wizard teams, and then put together an irregular group of some of the aurors - we'll ask Cedric who'll be best, maybe the old Advance Guard, and then whichever squads Reg can send over. I think he's calling in the Brahmins and some of the Russell Institute faculty. You can-"

Alastor held up a hand to still her. "I won't be here. I'll be out in the field, too."

_You can't possibly be this vainglorious, Alastor_, Hermione thought, as she trailed off. She raised her eyebrows and gave him a frank look.

"There are things to do, missy," he said, turning away. His body was heavy shouldered and bulky, fairly similar to his original body, but he still moved with swift assurance. His body language was clear: _I'm more experienced than you. And more importantly, I don't bloody answer to you._

"I hope they're important things," she said, and left it at that. She turned and scanned the room. "Tonks! You're tapped to work with Cedric and coordinate response!" Tonks looked over from the corner, where she'd been handing a stack of messages to a runner. Her hair reddened in surprise.

"Are you sure? You don't want me with you, out there?"

Hermione shook her head. "Not this time. We need you here."

Tonks shoved parchments into the runner's hands and moved to Hermione in a half-run, half-walk. She took Hermione's hands in her own. "When I said I thought I might want to go back to the aurors… you know that-"

"Don't be stupid," Hermione said. She leaned in and pecked Tonks on the cheek. "I just need a friend here, to keep an eye on Cedric Lockhart and make sure he doesn't take a break to check his mascara."

"I _can _hear you," said Cedric, irritably. He frowned for a moment, then returned his attention to scribbling the latest order.

"Break that silver-haired bollocks over your knee," said Tonks with a grin, and turned back to the table.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_4:00 pm_

_Tallow and Hemp Toxic Tapers, Knockturn Alley, London_

Tallow Enser burst through the shop door like a rampaging bull. He whirled about and slammed it shut with one big hand, throwing the bolt and bar with the other. His partner, "Hemp" Lock, stared at him, her chubby face incredulous. "Wotcher, Tallie!"

"Word's out on more raids, and the street's is crawling with reevies!" said Tallow. He dashed to the shop-window, yanked down the rattling wooden screen to cover it, and pulled out his wand. "_Colloshoo! Colloportus!" _He turned to the shop door. "_Colloportus!_" Hemp could see that the back and underarms of his robes were soaked with sweat, dark Vs staining the unclean fabric.

"They've gotten Bigby and Mord," said Tallow, whirling around and looking for other possible entrances. His face was shiny with perspiration, and his bulging eyes were even more protuberant than usual. "I hear they said they're sending all they can get right to Howie, Wiz-pull or no!"

Hemp stuck her thumb into the hole at the bottom of the till, and the drawer sprang open. She snatched up a hempen bag from under the counter, and began scooping handfuls of coins into it. "Right then, we better get the week's take and meet up somewhere safe. My uncle's got a place in Kent, lots of Muggles around. Good place to lay by for a bit. We'll go there."

Tallow scoffed, dipping his head so he could swipe at his brow with one sleeve. "You're barking! Want to try to dance past half the Patrol!? There's _aurors_ out there! Stick tight and we'll find someplace to hide here - we'll just put up a wall in one corner, they're not going to _Finite_ every last board."

"Do what you want, mate," said Hemp, calmly, as she lashed the bag in her hand shut with a length of twine. She pulled her wand from her pocket, and touched it to the bag. "_Silencio_."

"Well, you're not taking the lot, if you're going! I was in all Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday, and we haven't done the split!" Tallow turned to face her, putting his hands on his hips, indignantly. His wand was still in his hand, Hemp noticed. She decided not to put her own away, either.

"No time," she said. "I'll make accounts first thing - hell, I'll take a bloody picture, you'll know just to the Knut what's your cut."

"My left gobstone, not bloody likely!" Tallow objected.

"I can't leave it here, it'll just get nicked if we're hiding out or slapped in Howie, Tallie!" said Hemp, her tone rising.

"It's as good as nicked if you take it!"

"I'm going!"

"You thieving bint!"

"Leggo!"

"My arm! Getoffit!"

"Fat fool, let me go or I'll-"

"Ow! Ow! Stop!"

"Pbhet me ger!"

"Stop! Stop, I'm bleeding!"

"Leggo! Merlin, don't you wash? Ugh!"

The aurors must have been quiet when they tried the door, or else the squabbling pair had simply missed the sound of the knob or the _Alohomora_. Either way, Tallow and Hemp only noticed they had company when Auror Michael Li blew the door apart with a concussive explosion. The two corpulent business partners froze in their position on the floor, where they were tangled and fighting over the moneybag.

"Laura Lock and Tallow Enser, you are under arrest for the unlicensed distribution of a controlled substance. You'll be coming with us."

Tallow collapsed flat on the floor, clutching his face with his hands, and burbled something unintelligible. Hemp rolled away, sighing, and heaved herself to her feet. "Your bloody fault, Tallie."

Two other aurors marched inside with Li. He stood at the door, shaking his head. "Stop your blubbering, Tallow. Don't worry, you'll have plenty of company."

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_Very nearly the same time_

_Office of the Thunderer, Boyar Duma, Moscow, Russia_

"-and so it comes to this, Your Excellency," said Special Envoy of the Wizengamot Alexander Alexandrovitch, drawing himself up to his full considerable height and trying to reveal nothing of his sickening anxiety. "There is no natural right for the domovoi to subvert the will of Magical Russia, and the gathered nations of the world will not permit it. Life and Health or Independent, no one can countenance a mob turning the shaft of the cart whichever way they please, no matter what innocents suffer in the meantime. We will accept nothing less than a fair and independent plebiscite… although let me also assure you that we will abide by its outcome."

The Thunderer of the Conclave of the Domovoi turned his head and spat into the fire, deliberately and with great feeling. He answered the message in Russian, though his English was excellent, and his words were thick with anger. "Нашла́ коса́ на ка́мень. Теперь… пошел вон."

Even had Alexandrovitch not been fluent in Russian, the answer would be clear. As he bowed his way out of the Thunderer's office, he felt his stomach turn over in distress. There was a small acid belch rising like a hot bubble of acid in his belly, and he hurried even more so that he might be able to make it out of the building before he vomited. This was reckless and unwise, and there would be immediate consequences. The domovoi would be called again, and would vote in favor of a violent response. Their pride would admit nothing less.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_Simultaneously_

_The Court of Rubies, Hangzhou, China_

It was just after midnight, but none of the assembled Notables had raised a word of complaint. For while their system of government was modeled in large part on the British Wizengamot and Ministry of Magic - a cause for considerable complaint in many circles, considering the cultural coercion that many called the cause of British dominance - their own cultural heritage informed their attitude. They were serious wizards and witches, educated and experienced and ambitious, and time had no meaning in the pursuit of duty.

The formal request had been phrased in the most courteous but urgent language that Supreme Mugwump Bones could devise, and had been delivered to He Jin by her personal Patronus. He had considered the implications of her urgency and the irregularity of the request for a meeting of the Court at this hour. The conclusions he might draw are his own affair, however, since He Jin kept his own counsel on the matter as he took the necessary steps to summon the other Notables.

They all sat in respectful silence as they listened to the Special Envoy from the Wizengamot. Sunny Chow was someone they all knew well, since she was very diligent and had often lunched with them individually to discuss issues of the day. She spoke at considerable length, making a plain case for her government and for the Tower's proposal. They wanted to be fair, she said. They had word that the Council of Westphalia had endorsed the Treaty for Health and Life. They had agreed with the Council on special and generous entrance terms for the American states that acted on this endorsement, and wished to extend the same offer to other states. This would only be a temporary circumstance, however.

Chow began to lay out anew the case for the Treaty - the end of illness and disability, the promise of immortality, the possibility of new wealth from their arithmancers, and other reasons. After some time, He Jin rose from his seat among the Notables, and Chow fell respectfully silent. He Jin didn't think they needed to hear the same arguments for the hundredth time, although he only offered his polite thanks for her efforts and grace. He said that they appreciated her elegant words in service of a good cause, and had nothing but the deepest regret that they could not accommodate her. Nothing had changed, he said, for they still could not submit to a program that shipped their people across the world and brought them back changed in profound ways. For all the benefits, he said, she must understand that they had been taught to be cautious of such things. This was not something on which they could give way, he said, for if they were in error, it would likely be the last error the Court of Rubies could ever make.

But unlike at previous times, Chow now hesitated. Would the wise He Jin accept something only just short of his preference? She deeply regretted that they could neither duplicate the Tower facility nor place it under Chinese control, but she had been newly-authorized to offer a compromise: a Chinese facility segregated within the Tower, and a Chinese Receiving Room that would feed patients directly to it. She had to admit that these new facilities might eventually become simply for the use of all the Ten Thousand, as they joined the Treaty, and that Chinese aurors and healers might thus be assuming quite a responsibility if they agreed to this proposal, but this was the best possibility she could offer their great nation.

He Jin sat back down. He said only that the Notables appreciated her courtesy and willingness to listen to different points of view, and that they would give her generous offer their fullest consideration.

Chow apologized once more for the lateness of the hour, praised them for their wisdom and courtesy, and thanked them for listening to her poor presentation.

She left.

The Notables conferred.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_John Snow Center for Medicine and Tower School of Doubt (The Tower)_

One of the most sacred values of the Council of Westphalia was free and open debate, even to the point of officially considering whomever was holding the floor during proceedings to be literally sacrosanct. But in the span of the last hour, Harry had seen Hig arrange to have twelve councilors detained so that they would miss an important floor vote, strong-arm elected representatives of the Magical Congress into holding an impromptu session that evening, and give specific and uncompromising orders about using some of the vast amount of illicitly-obtained letters and conversations held by Council spies.

_How is it that they have embraced that Enlightenment value of free discourse so completely, but don't give democracy or privacy a second thought?_ Harry wondered. _I need to set a date to talk about this with him… it's too useful for us, and it's only going to get more tempting as we start working more closely together. There will always be some pressing reason not to bring it up right that moment. _Harry looked over at the ill-favoured American with grease-licked hair and small eyes, and frowned. _Like now, for example. I could step over there now and tell him not to use any of that to help us._

He looked to the other end of the room, where Amelia Bones was standing calmly, giving almost ceaseless directions to a pack of seven youthful wizards and witches, each of whom seemed to wordlessly know exactly who had which task. Most of them had the distinctive, subtle look of rejuvenation: regular features, no blemishes, and unusually healthy skin. Amelia was known to favour people who got the treatment; she said they were more energetic. Rejuvenation had made her more vibrant, certainly… but nonetheless she was still ruthless. She'd call him stupid for even considering giving up the advantages offered by Hig's lack of scruples.

He sighed, and shook his head. Another night. Not tonight. Too much depended on tonight, and he was really only feeling guilty because he and his cause were directly benefiting from the Westphalian abuse of their own people, and because he was paying particularly close attention to them. They'd been reading half of Europe and America's correspondence yesterday, too, and the day before that. Today wasn't special, except that now that wrongdoing was particularly useful to the cause. He was being stupid and short-sighted.

_Need to get back on track and out of my head. Okay… Amelia is handling allies and new propositions. _She looked to have it well in hand, and would ask if she needed guidance or help. He'd already authorized contingent terms that envoys would be permitted to offer, if necessary. Absurdly generous terms, in some instances. The amounts offered to "subsidize research" in Magical New Zealand was more than their usual annual government budget. He'd wager some eyes would be popping out of their heads when that particular message was announced at the Octagon in Dunedin.

Harry himself had handled the more aggressive gestures, trying to be rude enough for a _causus belli_ without outright taunting or stepping over the line. They needed dramatic and decisive confrontations today, while the Independent states might still be feeling strong and united enough to push back on them. Hig had called it the "Caesar model of management": aggravate the enemy into precipitous action, then be outlandishly kind and merciful in the aftermath. He'd had a strange look on his face when he'd said it.

Harry glanced over at Hig now. _ He's working on the Americas as best he can, to try to set up the snowball effect we're seeking. The States now, Canada next, and then… Brazil?_ He'd best stay out of that, as well. So far, Hig had needed nothing from him, but he was sure the Westphalian would feel comfortable making any requests necessary to move things along. The American seemed entirely invested in their alliance at this point. _We were going to have him appoint an envoy, but maybe that's not even necessary. With portkeys, it's not as though it would be much more inconvenient to have him work with us in person. _That sort of thing would need a mask of convenience - "Office of the Special Liaison" or something - but might make more sense.

_I should go check on Cedric, and see how the security arrangements are coming._

"Mr. To- Mr. Potter, sir, a message," came a voice at his elbow. Harry turned to find a runner waiting, message in her outthrust hand. She was a student - looked to be sixth or seventh year. He took it wordlessly, and the runner left at a jog, heading out the door in the direction of Material Methods. Relying on actual "runners" seemed asinine, but Moody had insisted; it was too easy for one spy to anonymously fake dozens of false Self-Delivering Memos, the more customary paper-airplane delivery method.

Almost at the same time, another runner appeared at the door with messages for Harry and Hig.

Harry opened up the messages. The first one was marked as a dispatch from the Ministry of Magic from Auror Bahry. Harry didn't know the man, but he'd heard the name.

ATTACK ON MINISTRY. CAPPADOCIANS. ESTIMATE 40. 10 CASUALTIES ALREADY. REINFORCEMENTS NEEDED.

The second message was marked as an American dispatch. Harry didn't recognize the name of the sender - Alain McCaffrey - but he supposed it was a local auror commander.

COUNCIL UNDER SIEGE BY RUSSIAN AND CAUCASUS FORCES. DRAGONS RELEASED. ALL IS WELL.

Hig's must be about the same incident, since Harry could see a slight smile on the Westphalian's face. No time to dwell on it, though.

Harry rushed out the door, striding with quick steps towards Material Methods. They needed a response team at the Ministry - two of the Hit Wizard squads, perhaps. By the time he got there, they'd probably already be deployed, but Harry could compose his diplomatic messages - his own part in responding to these sorts of incidents - while he walked, and it would reassure him to check up on it.

He hoped they sent someone effective.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_The Ministry of Magic, Whitehall, London_

"Take the east, sun at your backs! Hyori, come with me!" shouted Hermione over the wind, straightening up in her seat on the broom and pointing down to the east end of the building. The Returned split up: Susie, Urg, Esther, and Charlevoix went swooping off where she directed, while Hyori settled in tight on Hermione's right as the Goddess directed herself to the west.

Pillars of air blasted upward around them almost immediately, as the forces of the Exarchate of Cappadocia caught sight of them from the ground below. Hermione kicked up her broom and then dropped it down in a sharp curve, and the attacks went far astray. From the corner of her eye, she could see Hyori was still with her, unharmed.

There were fifteen Cappadocians outside the Ministry, clumped together in groups of three. Two of the groups had turned their attentions to Hyori and herself, but Hermione could see that the rest were still exchanging curses with two aurors who had taken shelter within a recessed brick entryway on the side of the building. They were out of sight and obscured by dust and sparks, but she could see the occasional arm and wand pop out as they tried to fight off their nine attackers. Two Cappadocians were down, but she didn't see any British casualties; their Safety Sticks must have already sent them on to the Tower when they fell.

_Or there was nothing left_, she thought grimly. _How serious are these attacks? Are they meant to assert "independence" and strength, or is this the first step in an attempt at armed regime change?_

It had been about two seconds - her opponents would be casting again. "Break!" Hermione shouted, and leaned hard to the left. Hyori swept her own broomstick to the right, and another pillar of air and four red-flickering curses ripped through the space between them.

Hermione swooped low immediately, using the roof of the city buildings surrounding the Ministry to block the line of sight of her opponents. Their angle was poor from their position on the ground. On the other hand, she couldn't see them, either. She'd have to move quickly, otherwise they'd be able to concentrate their fire on the two aurors, and they'd be inside. She glanced down at the building below her - an HSBC building, where she had her own Muggle accounts, and slowed her broom. Then, with a liquid leap, she pushed herself off her broomstick.

The fall was only twenty feet, but she still made sure to bend her knees in the air. Otherwise, she might go right through the roof like an arrow. She'd learned that the hard way. Landing on her knees would mean much more surface area would absorb her impact, so she'd be less likely to punch right through.

There was a moment of weightlessness as the roof rushed up at her, and then she smashed into the roof. But she didn't land quite right, despite her natural grace. She'd misjudged the angle or something, she couldn't be sure, and the impact made her whip forward - she smashed her face right into the slates of the roof. She felt them crackle around her head like loose stones.

"Nngh!" she heard herself grunt, as she wrenched herself back upright. She couldn't see properly out of her left eye - her vision from that eye was swerving sickeningly, and she had the uncomfortable thought that it might have come free from the socket - and her face sizzled with pain. But she was up and moving again in a second, running to the edge of the roof.

"_Bullesco!" _she cast, and she felt the Bubblehead Charm swell from one nostril - broken bone crackled with its passage. Her pace didn't even slow as she approached the roof's edge and raised her wand, sweeping it in a short arc in front of her. _"Reducto! Reducto! Reducto!"_

_This is probably not very considerate to the Obliviators_...

The roof-edge exploded in a shower of slates, stone, and cement dust, erupting out over the street. She leapt straight into it.

_...and it must be ruining my boots._

She hit the asphalt on the street below flawlessly, letting the impact rock through her and dropping into a crouch. It was _loud_, too - she could hear the boom echo off of the buildings around her. She could hear shouting in Greek, and someone was coughing and choking. Not everyone had reacted in time, it seemed.

The pain in Hermione's face was fading, and her vision swam back into synchronicity as she healed. She felt her blood sing with excitement in her veins, and found herself - just for a moment, just for a fleeting moment that barely stung, now - missing Granville.

Above her, she heard Hyori shout, "_Stupefy! Stupefy!_" The Returned had landed on the same roof, and was providing covering fire. Hermione didn't know if Hyori had hit anything, but it would force the Cappadocians to split their attention three ways. Hermione holstered her wand, and took off at a run for the sound of the coughing, charging into the billowing white concrete dust that was drifting around them.

She found the person coughing in a moment - a Cappadocian witch. She was on the ground, and another one of the enemy was holding his wand to her chest - casting _Anapneo_, no doubt. A third Cappadocian wizard had his wand up and was standing in a duelist's stance.

Hermione was only a few paces away from the trio before she saw their dark forms through the thick cloud of dust. She didn't bother with her wand, and didn't slow down, bursting in on them from out of the drifting concrete powder.

"Ha!" she grunted, lashing out at the duelist with a fist. He jerked back in surprise as she appeared, and her punch missed. Hermione followed it with a second to his ribs, however, and that one cracked home. She felt his side cave in beneath her clenched fist, and was already moving on to his companions before he had time to crumple to the ground. The cougher was still wracked with spasms on the ground, but the second Cappadocian was wheeling around to aim at her with his wand. She bent at the waist and pushed off with her right foot, bringing it spinning around even as she heard a barked curse and felt the numbing sizzle of a just-missing stunner flicker over the flesh on her bent back. Her whirling foot lifted in a kick as she spun in a full circle, and crashed into the man's shoulders. He was lifted bodily, thrown to the side by the sheer force of the blow.

She called up her coin-changer from her pouch, taking a moment to thump the side of her breathing-bubble with a palm and clear away the drifting dust that was beginning to settle on it. _Ker-chak. Ker-chak. Ker-chak_. She sent the three Cappadocians on their way, replaced the coin-changer, and dropped into a crouch again as she assessed the situation.

"_Stupefy! Stupefy! Stupefy!_" she heard Hyori shout from above. Some of the enemy began to return fire, casting back their own curses. She could see the flickering red and green lights, a dozen feet away. Hermione grinned, and reached for her pouch again. "Gauntlet," she said to it.

Pulling her gleaming gauntlet of gold onto her right hand, the Goddess leapt into motion.

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_6:00 pm_

_John Snow Center for Medicine and Tower School of Doubt (The Tower)_

The Ministry. Boston. Nurmengard. Howard Prison. Diagon Alley. There were small conflicts breaking out all over. And every single one seemed to be in control. Harry frowned.

He'd asked Luna to clear out a section of the Vision Verge for him, so he could have a quiet corner to himself - just for a few minutes, at least. It hadn't worked very well, since he'd had seven visitors in the past ten minutes, but it was less distracting. He could focus. He could think.

_If I was Draco trying to react to this, and trying to predict what Harry would do to such a reaction, and knowing that Harry was in turn trying to predict that counter-reaction, what would I do? Even that's not really enough levels, given the situation, but for this purpose, it will do._

_Harry will try to perceive a pattern in the attacks and use that pattern to deduce the missing information… either where I am directing a redundant attack, or launching a hidden attack, or trying to co-opt a strong position during the confusion, or trying to draw attention away. My goals are probably to protect my own position and that of my mother, and to make this day appear to be a mixed result, allowing me to claim victory against an overwhelming force. I want to cast doubt on the Treaty for Health and Life. I want to persuade more states to join the Independents._

"I activate my agents in the Tower, and strike at the source. Nothing else matters if I cast doubt on the center of my enemy's power," Harry said to himself, slowly.

_I have been waiting for this, since I could see the writing on the wall as well as Harry. I know he's been going easy on me. I have several of his agents on hand, including some double agents, and I know about some triple agents._

There was someone behind him. Another runner. He held up a hand in a "wait" motion - he needed to finish this train of thought. Then Harry clasped his hands behind his back, and devoted every fibre of his mind to thought.

_I know Harry Potter very well, and I know a bit about how he thinks. If I launch a pair of frontal and hidden attacks on the Tower, he'll deal with the frontal and plan for the hidden. He's cautious. He's also prepared - any simple attack is likely to fail. I don't want to just destroy the place, since otherwise I'd be using Safety Sticks to send in different kinds of bombs until I succeeded, but I do want to disrupt or co-opt it._

The person behind him impatiently shifted their feet, but Harry kept his mind on the task at hand. Everything might depend on this. This was something about which he'd often thought, but this new situation… he had to reconsider his prior conclusions.

_I worshipped my father, and quote him often, including oft-repeated Malfoy family advice about the complexity of plans. And I know Harry knows this, but that doesn't make it any less true. So the best way to circumvent the world's best security and the world's most devious spymaster is probably to simply take advantage of a known weakness, rather than try a complicated plan that attacks strength. I will find the simplicity appealing, especially since I can imagine Harry Potter running in circles to try to invent fantastical chains of logic and predict my attack._

"Excuse me."

_Harry Potter's weaknesses are his interpersonal skills (not as much as before, but still not great), his arrogance, his ambition, and his sentimentality. Possible avenues of attack at these weaknesses include using a triple agent and turning them again with more ruthless leverage than Harry will exert or drawing him into making himself vulnerable by giving him an opportunity to prove his own cleverness to himself. On a night like tonight, I will use any and all contingencies, so maybe I will attack on both lines._

"I said, _excuse me_."

_Knowing my own weaknesses, I will also try to compensate for them in a manner that cannot be countered. Maybe an element of randomness in my planning… using dice or-_

"Turn around." The words were a growl, and Harry was startled out of his train of thought, and he finally processed the voice.

"What is it?" he asked, turning around. He kept his hands clasped behind his back, lifting the right one enough to reach the wand in the dueling holster of his sleeve.

"Hello there, Mr. Potter," said Amycus Carrow. Lawrence Bradwian and Annabeth Dakesang stood beside him. Lawrence's eyes were rimmed with red, and Annabeth was shivering.

"Ah. Yes," said Harry. "Hello."

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_7:00 pm_

_Remote Cautionary Platform, Antarctica_

"You're in service to the _new _Dark Lord… only this one will see all of our wands broken in our hands, and the Muggles in charge!" spat Scarlett Meroveni-Bowles. Her hair was usually frizzy, but the air here was so dry that it had begun to look like a furry helmet. It made her rhetoric less impressive than it otherwise might be. She gave the silver sphere of a spaceship a savage kick, trying to dislodge it, but it had no more effect than her curses had produced.

"My hovercraft is full of eels!" called back Neville Longbottom, helpfully, from his position behind a metal cabinet. The cabinet was scorched, and much of the Lovegood Leaf draped on it to protect the equipment on its shelves had been burnt away.

"What does that _mean_?!" shrieked the witch. She leapt out from behind the spaceship and spat a curse, obliterating the top of the cabinet with a geyser of silvery fire.

"_Expelliarmus_." said a voice from nowhere behind Scarlett, and the witch's wand leapt from her hand into the air. "It means he is very, very annoying," said the voice in a Russian accent. "_Stupefy_."

Scarlett toppled over, and the youthful figure of Ilya Bogdanova appeared, as though she were stepping from behind a curtain. She walked to where Scarlett's wand had fallen, and picked it up.

"You'll hurt my feelings one day, Ilya," said Neville, stepping gingerly out from behind the smoking ruins of the cabinet.

"Why are we here?" said the Russian witch, ignoring him. "No, why are _they_ here?"

"This is where they have the Vanishing Cabinet for the _Monroe_, and this spaceship, and the prototype pocket world," said Neville. The pair headed for the door out of Chamber 1 to the hall, wands raised and eyes alert as they spoke. "It's all really valuable, and it would be embarrassing if someone else got ahold of it."

"Do not be stupid, Neville," said Ilya, brusquely. "I mean that it is foolish to attack here. It is much easier for us to bring people here, and we have much greater resources. Unless they were to bring dozens and overwhelm the defence immediately, then they only guarantee their loss. Instead, ten British Honourable and four or five idiot Russians who never stepped toe in Durmstrang. It is easy for us to come and defeat them. So: why?"

"Maybe something got lost in translation," said Neville, and Ilya sighed heavily.

They walked down the hall, footsteps ringing on the metal floor, Neville in the lead. The Remote Cautionary Platform was a vast facility, and crude as wizards accounted it. There were no extended spaces or other tricks: it was simply a series of connected metal boxes, transported by mundane means and sealed together by VeriWeld. Heating and other comforts were left to the occupants during their stay, and only in recent weeks had more permanent facilities been set up. The purposes of the Tower had required more complex instruments than the vast circles drawn to the thickness of a child's hair that were incised into the floors of the Platform's chambers. Shooting radiation at things was a complicated and equipment-heavy business, after all.

There was a deafening clang of impact, and Neville and Ilya almost lost their footing on the icy metal beneath their feet. Something had struck the corridor a terrific blow from outside, leaving a dent in the wall ahead of them the size of a Bludger.

Ilya wasted no time in scooping out her invisibility cloak and throwing it over herself, while Neville backpedaled and reached for the bubbler in the front pocket of his trousers.

He pulled it open. "Fred Weasley."

There was a moment's delay while the bubbler alerted Fred, and Neville waited. He backed up a few more paces, and almost slipped again when another deafening clang smashed into the corridor from above. The entire roof was buckling.

"Hullo," said Fred cheerily from the mirror in Neville's hand.

"Problem down by one, Fred," whispered Neville, creeping backwards away from the points of impact.

"There sure is," agreed the red-haired man, just as cheerily.

"You're out there, aren't you?"

"We sure are," said Fred, and the connection broke. Neville shoved it in his pocket and turned to face the wall.

"I'll be out to the right," said Ilya from behind him.

That meant she would get clear and flank the enemy. While a competent fighter, Ilya preferred indirect confrontation.

"Bouncy bouncy," said Neville, happily. "_Confringo_!"

A wad of fire spat from his wand and hit the metal of the wall, flaring wide as it impacted. It ate through the metal, which reddened and sagged and vanished under the punishment, but the immediate blast of arctic air - Neville immediately felt his flesh burning with cold, even with his Warming Charms - soon stole away the heat.

Not as dramatic as he would have liked. He shook his head and raised his wand.

A third immense blow struck the corridor, followed by an angry roar so powerful that it made the metal beneath them vibrate. Neville's eyes widened.

"Oh, bugger."

"What?" said the invisible Ilya.

"Hebridean Black."

"Of the House of Black?"

"No, of the time to run away."

There was another roar, and with a shriek of tearing metal four claws, like silvered spear-tips, ripped through the roof above them.

"_Confringo_!" said Neville, and the resulting fire burned away the remainder of the corridor. He leapt out through the smoking hole. A dragon regarded him with eyes like angry purple embers.

The Hebridean Black can grow up to thirty feet in length, with a mass of up to eight tons. It is covered in layers of dark-gleaming scales, and an adult is typically heavily muscled. They are aggressive, and grown males engage in frequent combat displays to show dominance. Their breath is fire. Their temper is short. Their appetite is huge.

Fred and George were mounted on their brooms, fighting the thick snow and howling winds that eternally scoured the ice of this Antarctic plain. George shouted something, but the words were torn away from him.

"_Stupefy!"_ cast Neville, once he'd overcome the shock of being confronted with one of the most magnificently lethal creatures on the planet. "_Stupefy! Stupefy!"_ The spell stood no chance of working, but the dragon did react, rearing back from him and shaking its head rapidly. It was probably more annoyance than anything else, but Neville didn't have any better ideas.

Stunners wouldn't work, fire wouldn't work, suffocation wouldn't work… even the more directly damaging hexes just wouldn't have much of a result on something of this size - and that was assuming they didn't simply bounce off.

He took off at a run. He'd need to Disillusion himself, at least, to stay safe while he-

Neville lost track of his plan as he was scooped up neatly from the ground by a flying Weasley. George had simply flown right into him, directing his broom right between Neville's legs. And there was a dragon attacking and a blizzard going on. He'd owe George a pint. Maybe two.

"Thanks!" he shouted, turning slightly in his seat and clutching the broomstick with his free hand.

George shouted something, but his words were lost again. Neville shook his head - or tried to, since George banked hard to the right, and Neville had to concentrate on holding on as a wash of flame blew past them. The dragon roared again. Wait, how had it gotten ahead of them?

George leaned forward as they straightened out, and shouted right into Neville's ear. "_There's two of them!_"

"_That's just silly_!" shouted back Neville.

The other dragon was in flight, and Neville could see it as a great dark shape ahead of them. It was as big as a house, only a house that could fly and wanted to eat you.

"_You're silly!"_ shouted Neville, at the dragon now. It roared so loudly that his teeth hurt, and the broom swerved momentarily as George reacted.

Looking behind him, Neville could see the other dragon was chasing Fred. The other twin was pulling tight turns at a high speed, trying to out-maneuver the creature, but it was too agile. It was only a matter of time before it landed a lucky swipe of its claws or hit the wizard with a blast of flames. Seeming to sense this, Fred pulled an abrupt loop, and then brought his broom down and shot through the hole Neville had burned in the wall of the Platform corridor.

George and Neville's own dragon beat heavy wings and swooped down at them, and George leaned forward and pulled his own tight turn, seemingly unaware that this hadn't worked for his brother and certainly wouldn't work for a broom with twice as much weight on it. Neville yelled something that even he knew was incoherent, and jabbed a hand at the hole into the Platform, looking back at George. The Weasley nodded, and they shot towards the hole, banking right and left as flames erupted past and over them.

Their entrance was too high of a speed to stop inside, and they hit the interior and opposite wall of the corridor with a heavy thud. Neville lost his grip on the broom beneath him and went pinwheeling away, hitting the floor and sliding along the ice-rimed surface for a few feet. George was more fortunate, and when he bounced off of the wall, he fell into the pile of snow that had been accumulating in the minute or so that the hole had been open.

Neville was just barely getting his wits about him when the corridor shuddered under impact, claws stabbing through the roof repeatedly as the dragon tried to find its footing on the roof. Fred appeared from somewhere, and was dragging Neville to his feet.

"What do you do with that? Does anyone remember? Is this the one you use acid on?" said Fred as he hauled Neville upright by one arm.

"No, that's the Chinese one," said George.

"Is there any _reason_ we need to fight them?" asked Neville. "If there are no wizards around, then won't they just… fly away? They're not going to steal anything important. Let's just-"

The roof folded and tore as the dragon ripped at it, and a great tear appeared in the metal. The dragon's head appeared in the gap. It roared, and opened its mouth, eyes glowing a hellish purple.

"_Avada Kedavra_," said Ilya. A bolt of green shot from her invisible wand and hit the dragon in the face. The light of its eyes died in that instant, and the creature's face vanished from view. There was a screech of metal and a tremendous thud as it fell to the ground outside.

The three wizards were silent, huddled together for a moment. Then they separated, dusting snow off of themselves.

"Yes, well-" said George

"-we could have done that," finished Fred.

"And there's another one," added Neville.

"It will soon be," said the invisible Ilya primly, "pining for the fjords." She stepped outside. A few seconds later, they heard another thud, even over the roar of the wind.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_The Ministry of Magic, Whitehall, London_

_Ker-chak. Ker-chak. Ker-chak._

Hermione stepped over a burning tire, and put the coin-changer away. She knew she should be tired - at least emotionally, if not physically - but things had gone too well. There were at least thirty prisoners, and Tonks had bubbled her that things had been going equally well everywhere else, too. Today might be a clean sweep without a single loss, as hard as that was to believe.

She heard a bubbling sound in her head, and smiled. She pulled out the bubbler again. "I was just thinking of you," she said to Tonks.

Tonks' hair had gone all black. "You need to come back. There's been a change. There's been a truce."

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_8:00 pm_

_North Tower, Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland_

Professor Pierre Placela shook his head ruefully, and drew a thick black line through another item on the list with his felt pen. These results were disconcerting, especially after the months he'd wasted on ichnomancy. He shuffled the deck, and got ready to try again.

No, wait… better switch to one of the other decks. He had Trelawney's letter around here, somewhere, and he was sure it said something about "aura contamination." He didn't remember that from the Divination N.E.W.T., but in fairness, that had been years ago. He slid the first deck to one side, and pulled out a fresh one from next to it.

It was common knowledge that any method of divination needed to be consistent to a minimum degree for it to be useful, and he was becoming increasingly unsure that cartomancy was going to be able to muster up the necessary p-levels. He'd laid out the Celtic Cross spread twenty times now, and there hadn't been any more common outcomes than chance would predict. Either he was a lousy cartomancer, or his own future was beyond his reach, or something else was interfering.

Twenty trials: time to switch methodology by one factor. It was a quick and dirty way to investigate, but time was pressing… it wouldn't be too long before other diviners began adopting the new methods, especially since Pierre had been asked to work up a prospective introductory course of study for the Salem Witches Institute.

He'd draw for someone famous this time.

He shuffled again, lay the deck down, and closed his eyes. He placed his fingertips on the deck, and concentrated. Face, name, and identity… face, name, and identity… face, name and identity.

When he was ready, he opened his eyes again, and shuffled a third time. Then he lay out the ten cards.

The Ace of Wands. The Moon. The Hanged Man. The Ten of Swords. The Ace of Wands. Death. The Five of Cups. The Tower. The Tower. The Tower.

He frowned. Oh, Merlin's beard… he'd accidentally mixed his decks together at some point. Stupid and sloppy, and it cast all of his trials into doubt. He'd have to sort them all out again and start all over.

Professor Placela shook his head, sighed, and swept the layout into a heap.


	33. Sudden But Inevitable Betrayal

_It is notable that when Grindelwald took power, and when he acquired the services of the Vég Hírnökei, and when he gathered the support of a legion of Muggles, he did it all with kindness, persuasion, and reason. He flouted the International Statute of Secrecy, he murdered his enemies with a free hand, and he made war upon the leaders of any magical state that refused him: but he did it all with the willing support of his subordinates. And in this, he was like the lesser shadow that visited the world years later, this time from Britain. Voldemort, too, found volunteers and ready warriors. With this in mind, then, perhaps we must ask different questions. We have spent much time asking, "What was wrong with them?" But perhaps our question should be: "What is wrong with us?"_

Bathilda Bagshot, _The Shape of Societies_

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_Those of pusaunce and all natures bilis and phlegma and sanguis and melas withall were bound to come by the flames, for Merlin compelled by libation their attendance. The princeps incantatorum seiden, "My daies grow short. Come to me here in my seat of power, and obeisaunce rendere."_

_Þei came in attendaunce to him and sat before him in the stone towre of his will, and he seiden, "The land of Atlas bore not up, and though they did their will upon all men and now men of will are not one hundredth part of a hundredth part, still there is dome. I will tell you the shape of it."_

Harry Lowe, _The Transmygracioun_, passus octavus

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

"Hullo, Lawrence, Annabeth," Mr. Potter said, nodding to Lawrence and Annabeth. "And Mr. Carrow, hullo. It's nice to see you all."

Lawrence could see how terrified Annabeth was, and knew he must look about the same. Her dark brown skin had gone grey, and she stank of acrid sweat and fear. There was a black scorch mark all along the left side of her Hogwarts robes, and she was trembling.

Carrow, on the other hand, was calm - even amused. He had thick clots of black blood caked on him in different spots, that a hasty _Scourgify_ had failed to clean away. "We thought we'd come visit you, on the direction of Lord and Lady Malfoy, Mr. Potter."

Harry didn't reply, but only turned to regard Lawrence. "You have been gone from school for - what, a couple of weeks? How has it been for you?"

Lawrence couldn't make himself say anything. He tried, but just choked: his tongue felt too big for his mouth, and his throat was dry.

His life had become a nightmare… a whirlwind series of horrors and subterfuges. After he and Annabeth were caught, he'd spent a miserable night lying in his bed in the Slytherin dungeons, staring up at the ceiling and torturing himself with regret. It had almost been a relief when he received a message from a glowering Auror Pirrip, the next morning. But that relief had curdled almost immediately, as he read about his instructions and the ones he was supposed to pass on to Annabeth. He was given background information about their "new beliefs," supporting details about specific phrases to use around others to show his turn of heart ("I never thought I'd say this, but the Honourable are on to something… I can't believe what I saw in that place"), a packet of "stolen parchments," and complicated instructions on how he was to proceed with the spying.

He'd been escorted out of Hogwarts by Pip, later that day, and left to his own devices in Diagon Alley. Once there, he was supposed to go to Whizz Hard Books… but he couldn't make himself do it without his stomach clenching up like a cramp. He'd bought a butterbeer at a corner shop, but he couldn't even drink it: there was something wrong with it and it tasted so sickly sweet that it made him feel even worse. Before he could screw up the courage to go to Whizz Hard Books and ask Buzzy Lieflat how he could "uphold tradition," he'd needed to spend fifteen minutes in the public toilet, sitting in a stall and staring blankly at the wall and hoping something would happen to just fix everything.

They'd been very accommodating at Whizz Hard - Buzzy was a kind man - and sent him on to Tallow and Hemp in Knockturn. When he'd gotten there, though, the two fat proprietors pretended not to know what he was talking about. They wouldn't help him, but wouldn't let him leave, either. "Sit down over there and shut up," Mr. Enser told him.

Eventually, a scraggly little man had shown up to take him somewhere and cast a million spells he didn't know, and then someone _else _showed up to blindfold him, and then he was taken to meet the Malfoys, deadly and elegant, where he'd followed all his memorized instructions and told them all the lies he was supposed to. And all the while he was terrified. _Terrified_. And Mr. Carrow had taken him aside and told him that he was in deeper waters than he knew, and it was a dark and dangerous thing to betray people, and that they owned him now, body and soul, and that if he ever caught even a hint that Lawrence was being anything other than straight with them in his promise to be a double-agent for the Honourable, then Mr. Carrow would see him punished so thoroughly that mothers would shudder and hold their children close when they heard the tale.

And then they hadn't let him go. They'd insisted that he give an interview to Sylvia de Kamp, an American journalist, about how much he opposed the Tower and his reasons. They told him how much he opposed the Tower and what his reasons were. They'd asked him about the papers and how he got them, and then asked him again, and then again. They asked him everything he could remember about the Tower and the people. They asked him about his trick with Annabeth. They had him write her, and told him what to write.

They were friendly and deadly, kind and killers, always just a heartbeat away from cold anger or warm reassurance. He whipsawed back and forth and didn't sleep at night, when he was put into a small room with a cot in the back of one or another dingy shop. He was so scared all the time that he actually become _exhausted_ with the effort of being terrified for such a long time.

They asked him if a student could get to the Tower. They asked what it would take to get there.

They started sending Annabeth things. Carrow had a plan, and was waiting for a chance to do it. Today might be the day, he would say. Today might be the day we go in. You'll go in. You're with us now. You've said things and written things and helped. You're Honourable.

_How had it been for him?_

"It's been… I don't know, sir," he finally managed to say. "I wish I'd… I wish none of this… I wish…"

He couldn't say anymore. A sob came out, instead.

"You wish that you could take it all back. Go back and fix it. Make it so that no one got hurt."

He nodded, and everything went skewed as tears filled his eyes.

"You're free, though. Despite what you did to Sammy Meroveni-Bowles. You should be in Howard Prison, Mr. Bradwian. But you're not, and you'll stay free. Because there was a time when you came up with a plot that hurt someone very, very badly - almost killing them. And it wasn't just stupid - and it _was_ stupid to meddle in things you don't understand, on this level - but it was _wrong_. What you did to that boy was wrong. You know that, don't you?"

And Lawrence _did_ know that. It wasn't that he'd gotten caught and probably should have just been turned over to the aurors. It wasn't even everything he'd been doing up until now - the long nightmare. It wasn't even the fact that he had just helped betray a great man - the Tower, the greatest healer the world had ever known, who was now at the mercy of Mr. Carrow.

All of those things were terrible, of course. But… he had done _evil._ When he hurt Sammy, he had done an evil thing for stupid ambition and selfish plots. That was crazy, since evil wasn't a thing that he did. He wasn't the sort of person who did evil. But at some point during the past weeks, he'd figured it out. You are your actions.

It was crazy that even though he finally really understood that, he couldn't articulate, even to himself, just what had changed in his understanding. He'd done wrong, and someone had suffered. That was wrong. But everyone knew that. You learned that at your mother's knee and from Beedle the Bard and all that… even from the stories they told of Harry Potter, in fact. Harry Potter, who was standing in front of a murderous enemy and _still taking the time to teach him_.

"You battered a boy nearly to death with your actions. We fixed him, but that's not something he'll ever forget. It's not something he _should_ ever forget. Those seconds of confusion, the horror of understanding, and the moment of pain… that's part of Sammy, now. Forever. What do you think about that? What have you learned?" Mr. Potter's voice was soft.

Anything he said would have seemed silly, so he just said the simplest true answer he knew. He said all of his simple true answers, all in a rush.

"Sammy was hurt because I used him in my plan," he said, the words tearing out of him, "and I only did that because other people used him in theirs, and he was part of that family, and even if he'd been willing to help, he was still just a boy. And I'm just a boy, and I can't really… I don't know what's going on, not really. And until I understood him and everything else, I shouldn't have tried to change it. Until I knew what people thought and why."

" 'Theory of mind.' You've acquired an improved theory of mind, Mr. Bradwian. You got there late, but you have it now. And some people never do. Well done." Mr. Potter's voice was cool. "Human beings come up with different ways of understanding other people's points of view. Very young children can't do it at all. It's something that can be tested - whether or not a child has a theory of other people's mind. If you-" He paused for a moment, then went on. "You show a young child a Quidditch-ball box filled with Chocolate Frogs, and then close it up. Then you ask them what a stranger might think was in the box. The youngest children will say that a stranger would think there were Chocolate Frogs in the box, since they don't understand that other people's minds work independently of their own. They can't simulate that separation - that they know something but that someone else wouldn't know it. But older children will say that a stranger would think the box had a Snitch and Quaffle and Bludgers inside, since they can guess another person's point of view."

Lawrence didn't understand. It wasn't fair to expect him to understand - not with a wand at his back and the past couple of weeks and the unimaginable terror of today. He opened his mouth, but he was a blank. "I… but I knew that. Before."

"That wasn't very clear was it?" said Mr. Potter, frowning. He thought for a moment, and Lawrence had time to feel a sense of unreality about the entire situation. Even though he was here and this was happening, it was insane. If he'd ever thought he understood the world around him - this world, this dangerous world of these dangerous people - standing here in front of Mr. Potter, listening to him give a lesson as calmly as though he were Professor Sprout in the greenhouse, while a former Death Eater stood and patiently waited with a mocking look on his face - well, that would have ended his belief in a world that made sense.

"Listen, then, Mr. Bradwian," continued the Tower.

"All too often, older children and adults - people who pass that test with the Quidditch-ball box - never move past that point. They can understand that other people have a perspective, and that it informs their beliefs and behavior, but they can't move past that single single additional level. They're trapped in themselves. When you discuss something with them, they can follow your reasoning and arguments, perhaps even well enough to understand or refute them - but they can't simulate your thought process. At best, they will know what you think and why you think it… but not _how _you think it. Or what you're likely to think _next_.

"It's the difference between… well, you know Wizard's Chess: it's the difference between thinking about other people as pieces, and thinking of them as _other players_. And while that seems obvious, and almost everyone would claim to be that sort of person, they're usually wrong. Most people come up with a mental set of rules or checklists that they use to _categorize_ people, rather than actually understand them. Then they treat people according to their category."

Mr. Potter shrugged. "And that works, most of the time and for most things. It's an adequate algorithm… but it's not the best. You've learned - or started to learn, anyway, since I think you might still be at the stage of learning genuine empathy rather than reflexive empathy - what it's like to be a piece in someone else's game. The danger there, and the helplessness, and the fear. And now you can't ignore how you made Sammy feel. Now you're getting an improved theory of mind."

Lawrence nodded, mutely. He understood… _some_ of that, anyway. Mr. Carrow still stood silently behind him, and Lawrence could still feel the tip of a wand in his back.

"And you, Annabeth? I understand you never left Hogwarts, but they surely didn't ignore an asset like yourself. You were passing notes or receiving packages or something, I expect. Not as dangerous, but still pretty frightening… given the did you learn? What have you learned about ambition… 'Silver Slytherin?' "

Annabeth was staring down at her feet, weeping. She was silent and trembling, and couldn't seem to be able to bring herself to say anything. Mr. Potter let his question hang in the air for nearly a full minute, until finally seeming to relent.

"You may go, Lawrence and Annabeth," said Mr. Potter. "If we see each other again, I hope that I will find that you will have not only kept your lessons close to your heart, but also lent your new wisdom to your House."

Lawrence didn't move a muscle until he felt the wand-point leave his back, and even then he only turned his head slightly to look at Mr. Carrow. Annabeth didn't dare even that much, transfixed with terror as tears leaked over her cheeks.

Mr. Carrow nodded slowly. He spoke, low and dangerous and threatening, as though the wand-point had never moved… as though he were talking to a pet that threatened to misbehave. "Yes, it is time for you both to go. Say nothing to anyone about what you have seen. You will regret doing otherwise."

Lawrence looked back at Mr. Potter, eyes wide. He tried to send a message with his mind or his face: _What should I do? Do I get help? _There were aurors everywhere. From the time they left the Receiving Room and entered the Tower through the entrance - so heavily enchanted that it seemed more real and motionless than anything around it, and guarded by a heavy shield of goblin silver waiting to be locked into place on the inside - and snuck through the Tower corridors to this room, they'd passed seven or eight aurors and more than twenty other people.

He could do it.

Somewhere in him, Lawrence knew that. He knew it instinctively, the way you know you're thirsty. And even as he thought about it, and stared into Mr. Potter's eyes, he knew that he could be brave.

"Go," said Mr. Carrow. "_Now._"

Even now, Lawrence could be brave. Even after the terror of the past weeks, even after being thrown into a deadly conspiracy of deception and constant threat of death, even after coming to the realization that he'd been a stupid _stupid_ little boy who had played with the lives of others and meddled in things far beyond his ken… even after that, he could be brave. Maybe _because _of that. Courage wasn't born in ignorance. Courage was knowing and _comprehending_ the situation and danger, and acting anyway.

_I can do it, Mr. Potter. I can save you. Let me save you._

_I can do it._

"Do as he says, Mr. Bradwian. You will be tempted to disobey," said Mr. Potter, and his green eyes were as kind as the warm sea, "but remember your lessons. Remember the damage that can be done, when you do something on limited information. It's a hard thing to learn, but… so important. And I think…" Mr. Potter hesitated, and appeared to stop for a moment to consider his words - maybe to consider whether he should go on. But he nodded, almost imperceptibly to himself, and said, "I think that for some people, that sort of thing must be learned the hard way."

He gave a small, sad smile. "It's no crime to reach beyond your grasp, but only if you can see where you're reaching." His voice was distant and soft, but sharpened as he focused back on Lawrence and Annabeth. "Go now, and say nothing to anyone. Just go straightaway to bed. You'll understand in the morning."

Lawrence reached out to Annabeth, and took her hand. She didn't resist as he pulled her away. There were people running and shouting in the halls. One healer grabbed Annabeth's shoulder for a moment to stop them - seeing her scorched clothing - but saw she was uninjured, and sent them on their way.

They didn't go down to the Slytherin dungeons. They went to the North Tower instead, and huddled into the alcove just at the bottom of the stairs, and held each other. They waited for the new day. After some time, they fell asleep.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

"You shouldn't be standing here by yourself, even with guards at the door," said Carrow. The tall and gaunt man's tone was amused and harsh at the same time, like a scornful teacher.

Harry raised his eyebrows. "I needed time to think quietly. I wanted to think about possible reactions to today's events." _Not that it worked, since runners kept showing up and then a trio of intruders. How did he finally manage this? _

Carrow chuckled. "Shouldn't you have spent some time doing that before now… before the evening was half-over, and those events were in motion?"

"Well, I thought my excellent Chief of Security had managed to arrange things so that I could spend a minute alone, sorting out a good narrative," said Harry, shaking his head ruefully. "All right, I'm dying to know… how did you get in here?"

"I wore a troll."

_Damn it. Clever._

_And so the stunning effect of the Safety Stick only affected the troll outside, absorbing the effect. Clever, especially since trolls might even be immune to the effect. Have we ever tested that? Surely we have. Either way, though, he'd be awake and alert in the Receiving Room, able to act. But he'd still be inside of a troll, even if he wasn't stunned. He'd need to get free of the troll, get past the guards and through the door, and pull on a Cloak of Invisibility… all without being seen. He needn't worry about the Dark Detectors or chizpurfles, I suppose, thanks to the troll providing plenty of interference and distraction… Still, though, even with a troll and hundreds of incoming casualties of war and all the chaos, that's a tall order._

He thought for a moment, and Carrow stood silent and waiting, a mocking half-smile on his face.

"And the children got you out of the troll, after the aurors took it down," Harry said, finally, as one possibility dawned. It was an obvious possibility and not one they'd overlooked, considering the Tower's location. Students were not normally able to find their way to the Receiving Room, for the entrance to the Tower was at the end of a frequently-changing and byzantine series of corridors that snaked throughout Hogwarts. Even when students needed to visit the Tower, the simplest way remained the Safety Sticks or the Safety Pole in the Great Hall.

But today they'd used student runners, who'd gotten guidance on how to reach the Receiving Room. Tomorrow it would be different, as the school shifted and moved, but for today, dozens of students knew the way.

"I suspect you have an invisibility cloak to sneak around and get to me, right? Something to evade our Anti-Disillusionment Charm, anyway," said Harry, working through possibilities in his head.

Carrow nodded, patting one side of the vest he wore under his robes. He reached into another pocket and pulled out a black cylinder that fit comfortably into his hand. There was a flange on the side, and a metal ring on top. "And the children brought these to help us get through the Receiving Room. 'M84 Stun Grenade,' from the States. Strangely easy to acquire."

"So a troll showed up in the Receiving Room," said Harry. "And-"

"_Ten_ trolls," interrupted Carrow.

"So ten trolls showed up in the Receiving Room," said Harry. "And while they might ordinarily lock it down for that, today everyone's prepared for something like a mass werewolf or half-giant attack. So after they - what, used the Killing Curse on the trolls? - they open things back up, that way all the defeated enemies don't start to accumulate and pose a security risk of their own. Then… well, I expect Lawrence came back to school today, and he met up with Annabeth, who had probably been getting packages by owl with grenades in them, and they followed a runner or just found out the path from a runner, and they were waiting to throw them…"

He shook his head. "This was a silly and complicated plan. Didn't Draco ever tell you about how many steps any good plan should have? You needed Annabeth to hide the grenades, Lawrence and her to find their way to the Receiving Room, and then everything depended on them successfully using the grenades." He paused. "Did you paint the trolls different colors, so they'd know which one you were in?"

"Different sorts of armor. Less suspicious." Carrow smiled. "And not so complicated. If the children had failed at any step, I had grenades of my own. I'd cut my way out in a second and throw one, and then be on my way. The only difficult parts were capturing and restraining ten trolls - as well as cutting one open and climbing inside before the hole closed. I already knew my way around."

"Ah, yes, from the debates," said Harry. "Such dedication in Malfoy's service." He thought for another moment. "But the decision to attack today… that was a surprise to everyone. I know that my people had plans and ideas, but I decided to move today without any warning. It's impossible to put Unbreakable Vows of loyalty on our staff without unacceptable risks, and despite the best efforts of our indefatigable Chief of Security, there are spies. Even if we didn't have any turncoats, there are the healers and aurors from other countries who are sent here as price and payment for their states' being a part of this." He rubbed his forehead, frowning. "In retrospect, that may have been hasty, and I wish someone had said, 'Stop, let's do this tomorrow' when only five people were in the room."

He shook his head, and eyed Amycus Carrow, spymaster and lieutenant of Draco Malfoy, and a leading figure in the Honourable. "I _thought_ it was low risk, though… just to spend a moment thinking quietly to myself."

Carrow looked around the empty corner of the research room, raising his eyebrows.

"I thought this was some last-minute Muggle research… but it's not. You're sorting through action and reaction now… when the evening's half-done and everything is playing out?" asked Carrow, disapprovingly.

Harry sighed. "I was trying to work out a plausible story… we need a good series of believable events to explain our crushing success. It will be suspicious if we win every conflict. I didn't actually think it would be that hard, but we need two levels… an easy lie for the masses, and a clever lie for everyone else."

"No casualties on our side?" asked Carrow. He picked a thick lump of congealed blood from one sleeve, and dropped it, disdainfully.

"Some, but nothing we couldn't handle, according to the healers," said Harry. "Last I heard, anyway. That might have changed, since I understand someone dropped ten trolls and a bunch of grenades into the Receiving Room about ten minutes ago."

"Couldn't be helped. Have to kill off Carrow again, anyway. And no one was hurt. Everyone should have been on alert anyway, particularly there and on a day like this," said Carrow, shrugging gruffly.

"It's an odd-numbered day, though," pointed out Harry. "And rather a lot is going on. Prisoners and casualties popping in all day, plus the usual number of regular people needing healing. Almost every reliable person on staff has been working for hours without a break."

"I got in, Harry. No matter what day it is or how I did it, I got in. Remember that. It can be done. And if there's one way it can be done, there are other ways. We need another layer of security." Carrow shook his head. "Bah. Let's just decide on the story, so I can get back to Material Methods and check up on how things are going."

"I actually thought it might be time to offer Draco a truce - to offer him terms. To bring the whole thing to an end, finally," said Harry. "All right, then, anyway… how did Amycus Carrow die, when he snuck in and attacked me? We need a properly heroic turn of events."

"He died from boredom, when you gave him a twenty-minute lecture," said Carrow. "Everyone will sympathize."

Harry grinned. "Just help me figure it out, will you, Moody? Or I'll stick you back in the troll - or in the body _of_ a troll."


	34. Intent

_Dear Mum and Dad,_

_I'm sorry. Let me say that straight off. I know that I promised I'd never let magic come between us, but I was wrong. I can't come home._

_That's the bad bit, and I'm so so so sorry. There's so much I have to tell you, and so much more I can't tell you, but I didn't want you to wonder what the bad news would be as you read this whole letter. That's the bad news I needed to tell you, and it hurts me so much to write it. I love you both. I love you Mum. I love you Dad. I love our house and our life and our trips and everything. I love you so much. This has nothing to do with any of that, and you need to know that if I had any choice, any choice at all, __I would come home right now__._

_But I can't. And it's not because of some powerful wizard, and it's not because it wouldn't be safe for you. It's because it wouldn't be safe for me._

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

SECOND WIZARDING WAR?: HONOURABLE SORTIES DEFEATED; AMYCUS CARROW DEAD; PEACE SUMMIT ANNOUNCED

by Simone Sprout

Open warfare erupted on a global scale yesterday afternoon, as several signatories to the Treaty of Independence and their British allies attacked allies of the Treaty for Health and Life around the world. The fighting occurred on multiple fronts, including strikes directly on the Ministry of Magic; the Safety Poles of Diagon Alley, Godric's Hollow, Paris, and Tidewater; the Department of Mysteries' Remote Cautionary Platform; the Cypriot Hold; and the Alþing of the Council of Westphalia in the Americas. The attacking forces were comprised variously of forces of the Exarchate of Cappadocia, Magical Russia, the Emirati of the Ether, the Emirati of the Sky, Magical Anatolia, Magical Nakhchivan, and other Sawadi and Caucasian states. In almost every case, the attacks were turned back through armed intervention by British forces and their allies, with few serious casualties but considerable damage to the Ministry of Magic, the Parisian États-Généraux, and the Remote Cautionary Platform. While the outcomes of individual events have been difficult to verify, at this time the Ministry of Magic has reported that they have 650 prisoners of war. Magical Russia has claimed to have taken more than 40 prisoners of war, but the Ministry of Magic disputes this figure.

By the end of yesterday evening, hostilities had ceased. In most areas, conflicts had already been resolved, but news of a truce offered by the Ministry of Magic brought an end to an ongoing battle in Paris and at the Cypriot Hold. The truce was refused by the Cappadocian soldiers still attacking in Cyprus, who were eventually subdued by the American Brahmins, but all other states agreed to a cessation of the fighting.

The attacks also included an assault on the Tower by members of the militants known as the Honourable, leading to the violent death of Amycus Carrow, one of the most prominent leaders of the group. While the assault disrupted healing activities at the John Snow Center, Owen Wilifred, a spokesperson for the Tower, stated that there had been no deaths among patients as a result. "The Tower is proud to say that even these tragic and unfortunate events did not result in any permanent consequences, thanks to the courage and diligence of our aurors and healers. We have never lost a patient who was remanded to our care. We are even proud to say that we were able to save the lives of even the most gravely wounded among those who attacked our Safety Pole facilities around the world. The Tower will remain devoted to preserving life and health for everyone."

Carrow was notable for his role as an Honourable spokesperson, frequently representing the group at public debates and meetings, as well as his suspected involvement in the Honourable's military actions. While he consistently denied any role in such affairs as the Diagon or Alþing blastbombings, Carrow had previously served as a skilled lieutenant for Lord Voldemort's Death Eaters, two decades ago - a role he claims was forced on him by the Imperius Curse - and was widely believed to be a guiding hand behind the Honourable's actions. His reputation was considerable among the group, and he was particularly known for his cunning. Carrow was by far the most prominent Death Eater to escape the events of Lord Voldemort's return on June 13th of 1992, avoiding the fate of his compatriots by substituting a death doll with an improvised Dark Mark.

The Tower was unwilling to comment on the assault in detail, saying through their spokesperson that they "didn't comment on security procedures, as a rule," but _The Prophet_ has been able to independently discover that Carrow's attack involved brutalizing and coercing two students into helping him gain access to the facility, employing a series of small blastbombs and an attack by twenty trolls in the process. Carrow then attempted to assassinate Harry Potter-Evans-Verres, the Dean of the Tower School of Doubt and chief of the John Snow Center for Medicine, but was defeated when he proved unable to control his own Fiendfyre in the face of Potter-Evans-Verres' defense. Much of the success experienced by the Life and Health forces throughout the evening may, in fact, have come from the incident; at least one auror was willing to state under condition of anonymity that Carrow survived for a short time after the attack, during which time his Occlumency barriers were down. This would flatly contravene Tower policy on healing, and was vigorously denied by Tower spokespeople.

As events are ongoing, a later edition of _The Prophet_ will contain updated reports about yesterday's events and continuing developments.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_April 30th, 1999_

_On the shores of the lake of teeth, where the black hills end, Tír inna n-Óc_

Three figures of shadow stood facing each other, their bodies taut coils of animated darkness. The weather in Tír inna n-Óc was foul this morning/day/evening/night, and a storm was approaching. A preamble of thick yellow fog was tonguing the three visitors. Soon, milks would fall thick and white on the black hills.

The three figures conferred in a dialect of Norman French now entirely extinct.

"You have acted," said the first figure. "You sent in our bishop."

"She did, yes," affirmed the second figure.

"Events were moving without us," said the third figure. "If I had waited even another hour, it would have been too late. All was ready - the wolf has done its work. It was time."

"You were right to do so, and I would have done no differently," said the first figure, approvingly. "I have accused you of haste in the past, but not now. But I must ask - by what method will our piece breach the Tower defenses? All our lore has not succeeded. Even the Lens has failed."

"Lens? The Lens of Kasreyn is sand and dust, broken long ago," said the third figure, putting shadowy hands on shadowy hips.

"It survives, though it was damaged in the fight when Gellert Grindelwald fell. But even it cannot see through to the Tower. That stronghold must draw upon the northern ley that feeds the school, for nothing less could erect such mighty barriers," said the first figure.

The third figure crossed its arms, and said nothing for a time. The others waited patiently. Finally, the third figure spoke again, guardedly. "The stonemight succeed in penetrating their guards - although perhaps not. I had not known that the Lens survived and that it too was unable to penetrate the Tower. That information would have been helpful."

All three were quiet and reflective, and stood thoughtfully as the yellow fog rubbed its miasmic muzzle against them. It was growing thicker and colder as the storm approached.

"Not everything can be shared, even at these times. There is always some crisis that approaches, looming large in the moment," said the second figure, after a while. A peace offering and a scolding, neatly tucked within a few harmless words.

"Regardless," said the third figure, seemingly resigned, "there are alternate approaches if the stone fails. Our piece is prepared, and will succeed."

"In which case, I must note that it may be too late to return to the previous _status quo_ that has existed since the Confederation took charge. The order of the world is in disarray, and I doubt we could simply return everyone to their row," said the first figure, moving on. "I propose we abandon our opposition. Matters are too far along for any coup or division to stop the consolidation of the magical world."

"That is a matter for another time, I think, Meldh," said the second figure mildly. "It is enough, for now, that we clear away the danger at the Tower's top. We shall judge our next move later… after all the stones have stopped their tumbling."

Tír inna n-Óc endured.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

Lord Draco Malfoy of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Malfoy was blood relation to fifteen families of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, speaker and leader of the Honourable, counselor to the nations of the Treaty of Independence, defender of three millennias of Magical British tradition, and master of both ancient lores and new sciences. He rejected the Tower's offer of a Safety Stick for travel, and scorned in sharp language the suggestion that he fly to the peace summit by broomstick. His dignity would not bear either insult.

Lord Malfoy and his mother traveled by fortress instead.

_The Declaration of Intent_ was dominated by a single tower, three stories high, made of fitted wedge-shaped blocks of smooth tan stone. Mullioned windows ascended around the tower in a spiral, each featuring a depiction in stained glass of a notable act of a notable Malfoy. In addition to the tower, there were two broad platforms and a gate of black metal. All four of these points - tower, platforms, and gate - were linked by spikes of thick curtain wall that jutted out into the space beyond, protected by battlements.

The fortress moved slowly and grandly, no more quickly than a learner's broom, and so it took a full ten hours for _The Declaration of Intent_ to bear the Lord and Lady Malfoy from Malfoy Manor in Wiltshire up to Hogwarts in Scotland. Lord Abraxus Malfoy, Draco's grandfather, had not built the structure to speed along like a twittering sparrow. _The Declaration of Intent _was built for intimidation and war.

(When he was a boy, Draco's father, Lucius, had once told _his _father that the_ Declaration_ was a "Muggle-mimicking boondoggle of unspeakable proportions," and was generally unwilling to even admit that the thing existed, hulking in the distance on their estate and never once used. The fortress had been built around the Aa-Khem of the Shafiq family: the bronze scarab statues, capable of independent flight, had been purchased from one of the impoverished Shafiq heirs only at staggering expense. Abraxas had punished Lucius for his insolence, lashing the whipping boy nearly to death, but it must be admitted that the flying fortress had rather severe limitations when it came to combat.)

_The Declaration of Intent_ arrived at Hogwarts early on the morning of the April 30th, gliding high above the Scottish countryside. The Malfoys hadn't bothered with any of the complicated and difficult glamours that might have hidden the fortress from sight, and only the diligent work of the exhausted Obliviators and Professor Sinistra's conjured cloud kept the Muggles from fussing. The _Declaration_ hung in the air like a black star, Hogwarts far below.

The students of Hogwarts, already disrupted by yesterday's events, were now further restricted in their movements. No one was allowed into the North Tower for Divination and Probability, no one was allowed into the greenhouses for Herbology, no one was allowed to play Quidditch or practice flying, and no one was allowed out to the stables or the Forbidden Forest for Care of Magical Creatures. Some classes were canceled, although this was discouraged since it only meant chasing more gawking children away from windows.

At noon, a hue and cry spread from Gryffindor tower throughout the school as _The Declaration of Intent_ began to move, once again. Some faculty seized the opportunity for a teachable moment - the Science Program first-years were required to calculate its velocity - but all hope of an orderly learning environment ended when the Malfoy fortress gradually descended down onto the Hogwarts grounds. _The Declaration of Intent_ majestically subsided, moving in a tight spiral, until it settled down on the broad meadow outside the Hufflepuff greenhouses, along the path to Hogsmeade. It alighted with delicate slowness. Students from every house shoved and elbowed each other at every window on the south side of the school, fighting for a look. An enterprising few had thought to bring their Omnioculars, renting them at a sickle a minute.

Only a few minutes later, the toothy black gate jerked and rattled upwards, and a hare that had been trapped inside _The Declaration_'s new courtyard bolted free. And Lord Draco Malfoy and Lady Narcissa Malfoy, his mother, emerged. A small, solemn, and grand retinue followed: Fila Zabini and her son Blaise; Gregory Goyle and his wife Sara; the Lady Gertrude Greengrass and the Lord Teddy Greengrass and their two daughters. Kingsley Shacklebolt brought up the rear, his head held proudly high and a smile on his face.

The group had only walked for a short time before another group of people became visible below, walking out to meet them: Minister for Magic Carmel N'goma, Chief Warlock and Supreme Mugwump Amelia Bones, Headmistress Minerva McGonagall, Dean of the Science Program Harry Potter, and Hermione Granger.

The Honourable paused as the Government delegation approached, and the two sides faced each other at a distance of a dozen paces. Words were exchanged, and Lord Malfoy nodded in response, gesturing behind him at _The Declaration_ and then over at several of his companions. One Slytherin, face glued to his Omnioculars, claimed to be able to read lips; he reported that the Lord Malfoy was making introductions, since several of the visitors had never met each other.

After a time, the two parties joined together into one group, and moved _en masse_ back towards the rear of Hogwarts. Grumbling children were pulled away from the windows, scolded for being chancers, and directed back to class.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

Harry sat in the discharge ward of the clinic in an unused enclosure, sitting on a cot and waiting. He heard the quiet murmurs of the healers and aurors, interrupted at long intervals by someone's rapid steps as a patient was moved. Somewhere, Draco and his mother and some dozens of eminent persons were meeting and exchanging pleasantries. Tonks was playing the role of Harry, under instructions to be warm in demeanour but quiet. They'd make their way through Hogwarts to the Tower gradually, and eventually would enter the Extension Establishment, which was already stuffed with still more figures of worldwide fame and power. There were representatives from the States, Canada, Russia, China, Korea, New Zealand, Italy, France, Norden, Spain, Germany… the list went on for pages, including a dozen fiddly magical city-states like Nakhchivan (which was, he had found out, within the Muggle state of Azerbaijan).

And at some point in the next hour, hopefully Nymphadora Tonks would find an opportunity and excuse to slip out to the clinic for a few minutes, and let the real Harry get to work.

It would be much more convenient if he could just temporarily change his face. 

Harry's Vow had no sense of degrees to it. The possibility for action was a binary state: either he could do something, or it might destroy the world and so he couldn't even consider doing it. There was some threshold of permission, governed by his own unalloyed best judgment - he wasn't held hostage by extremely unlikely possible outcomes - but there was never any partial obstruction. He was capable of deciding to create a cubic millimeter of antimatter, since it wouldn't destroy the world, and probably incapable of creating a cubic meter of antimatter, since it might (even assuming the logistics could be managed). At some point between the two points, there was a decision point: an amount of antimatter that was _just_ big enough to endanger the world.

It said a great deal about the power of the human mind and the possibilities behind the Unbreakable Vow that Harry couldn't investigate these things in detail. It might be interesting to figure out how his brain made the decision about the threshold of acceptable danger, if he could work out how to measure it (would his Vow stop him from pretending to decide to do something dangerous?)

For that matter, there were a lot of good reasons why you might want to have someone take an Unbreakable Vow to improve their rationality - "I will assess my beliefs with epistemic investigation," or the like - but Harry had found himself unable to start that course of research, as well. That made sense, of course. It was incredibly dangerous to drastically alter one aspect of any person's mind, when that person had access to magic.

Unfortunately, it was also dangerous for Harry to alter his own body with transfiguration and the Stone. He could, and did, regularly check himself over for any new medical problems. And when he'd found that that he had mild brachial plexus neurapraxia, he'd been able to fix that in just a few minutes (chalking it up to years of stress keeping his shoulders tense).

But changing his face just for an hour's subterfuge?

It couldn't be done. There were accidents when transfiguring, and misjudgments, and all sorts of things that could go wrong. There'd been times when a healer had needed to spend an hour on a transfiguration that had gone wrong on some deep level - when the thick-spread magics around the Tower interfered with a delicate moment, or their concentration slipped, or a dozen other things.

So he sat, and waited.

"Oy, Harry," said Tonks, slipping past the curtain into the little enclosure. She was already half-changed back to her more typical appearance, shifting slightly in height as she redistributed her flesh. "You ready?" she asked, as her hair shortened, darkened, and tipped itself with bright turquoise. Her face was the last to change, giving him an uncomfortable view of exactly what it would look like if he grew breasts, changed his hair, and lost two inches of height.

"Absolutely," he said, standing up. He tugged on either side of his robes, to settle them more lightly on his shoulders, and adjusted his ponytail. It was bound a little more loosely than usual, so that the front would droop just enough to hide some of his scar. It would be less distracting to some people, a message of prestige to others, and a signal that he knew how to play the game to a select few who were canny enough to understand.

"The Malfoys knew it wasn't you, but I'm not sure anyone else of that lot noticed," said Tonks, adjusting her own robes. "Best assume they've communicated, though. I saw a bucket-load of meaningful stares into each other's eyes."

"Anything to report on the walk-through? How did Minerva handle the intrusion?" Harry asked. He fished in his pocket for his left glove, and pulled it on. It appeared identical to the right glove - fingerless brown leather - but the small extensible space on the palm held a different ancient relic of eldritch power than the Stone of Permanence. Or a fragment of that relic, anyway. The Cup of Midnight had been long broken when they'd found its hiding place.

Tonks shrugged. She reached inside her robes, shoving her arm up to her elbow deep into a small satchel that hung at her side. "The Lord and Lady Greengrass were a bit smarmy about things, turning up their noses and talking about the reputation of Hogwarts and how it'd gone from being a school to being the government."

"Not far off," said Harry, frowning. "I have sometimes regretted not setting up the new Tower somewhere in the Ministry building. At the time, I thought it would help avoid any appearance of… influence."

"Ol' Kingsley put it right, anyway. Took McGonagall's arm and said something smooth about how the government could have no better caretaker. Not that the Headmistress needed the help. She's unflappable. Cannot be flapped." Tonks extricated herself from her pocket, retrieving a golden gauntlet in the process. She pulled it on, working the fingers back and forth until the gleaming piece of armor was comfortably situated. The gauntlet seemed to have no angles, except for a sharp ridge along the knuckles where the chargers fit. The fitted pieces of metal moved and slid flawlessly around each other as the witch waggled her fingers.

"Anything else I need to know?" Tonks shook her head. "All right, then. See you out there," said Harry. She nodded at him, then returned her attention to her gauntlet, squinting at one of the chargers studding the top. Harry left her and pushed through the curtain.

Six of the enclosures had their green flags up, so Harry spent a handful more minutes ducking in each and finalizing the healing as quickly as he could. Only one of the patients - a man named Ymir, whom Harry vaguely remembered - had been brought conscious, so there was little need to chat.

Then he was out of excuses and delays and conversations, and so he squared himself off with the door and walked briskly out of the discharge ward, down the hall past the Conjuration Conjunction, and into the Extension Establishment. Like all of the largest departments, the Establishment was to the rear of the Tower. They needed the space. It would be time to reorganize soon, actually… the Advancement Agency and Ypsilanti Yard needed more space, and there was no room to expand near their current position adjacent to the clinic's special ward. Although maybe he was being silly, thinking in such limited terms… why not just install some of the first stable pocket worlds here? There's no reason for all of them to be put in orbit.

Harry brushed past the pair of aurors at the door of the Establishment, and paused.

There were easily a hundred guests in the room, packed in the space with half again as many aurors: diplomats, journalists, and leaders. They'd moved out every last piece of equipment and scrap of furniture to accommodate everyone, and even so, the room was uncomfortably crowded. The fact that the crowd had divided itself into factions made things even worse: the Independents and Honourable had segregated themselves in one corner, Hermione was surrounded by all of her Returned in the center of the room, and everyone else had formed a thick-packed horseshoe of murmurs in the rest of the available space. Five of the aurors had been pressed into service as waitstaff, and were carrying silver trays around the room with studiously neutral expressions, serving drinks brought in from the Conjuration Conjunction, next door. He could smell mint; they'd cast Fresh-Air Charms to make the cramped quarters more comfortable.

As Harry appeared in the doorway, the conversations all rose in volume for an instant, then died away. He smiled as pleasantly as he could, and reached to his left, where Norden's Per Aavik-Söderlundh-Ellingsen was offering his hand and a smile of his own. "Per, good to see you," said Harry, with the rote warmth that came easily to him, these days. "Thank you for coming."

"You have a third of the Confederation in here," said Per in his impressively deep voice, plucking at his goatee with his free hand. "And much good news, I think. You will wish to speak to the representative of the Court of Rubies, I think. Perhaps before you make any other deals - your hand will be stronger."

_We have China? _The possibility was exciting. China had leather lungs among the Ten Thousand, and if they were signing on to the Treaty for Health and Life, then they'd want to press their advantage and bring in the rest of their neighbors on terms that continued their regional dominance.

"Thank you for the good word, Per," said Harry.

"We remain as committed as ever, Harry… no light between Britain and Norden, yes?" said the bureaucrat, patting Harry's shoulder. Harry smiled and nodded, and moved on. Another hand was already waiting: someone else eager to pass a bit of advice or a whispered secret or something else that might win them favor.

The Tower was ascendant.

He made his way around the room, moving through the close-packed witches and wizards with slow progress. Aurors moved through the crowd with him - Kraeme and Kwannon were on duty for him personally, and he could see them gently push between people to remain close at hand. He had time to exchange no more than a few words with anyone, shaking each person's hand and murmuring something blandly pleasant, speaking about his appreciation for their advice or compliment.

Harry did take the time to confer with three people for some minutes, pausing as he reached each of them and taking the time to have a more substantial conversation: Councilor Hig, the visitor from China, and Minister N'Goma.

Hig was all smiles, his delight almost physically palpable. Harry was fairly sure that he'd walked out of the room having secured ten favours and twenty alliances, particularly since recent events had shown how much influence the Council of Westphalia - and Hig personally - wielded with the Tower. The American had few specific things to say beyond warm congratulations and some cutting comments about Fila Zabini's formal robes. Harry couldn't evade the trap, and said something noncommittal. Hig's grin widened, now that Harry had confirmed his suspicions about a body double, and Harry could only keep smiling and move on with a few evasive last words.

He Jin was quiet, and spoke approvingly of the quality of the firewhiskey that an auror had brought him. He and Harry talked of firewhiskey generally, saying almost nothing pertinent to the current situation. Harry didn't know much about the topic, and asked some polite questions about the qualities of superior liquor. At some point, He Jin mentioned that the Notables had become willing to consider the Tower's proposal. Harry nodded and moved on with the conversation, and after some time, he parted from the Chinese with a final expression of gratitude, knowing that the Court of Rubies had agreed to sign the Treaty on the offered terms. It was a triumph.

N'Goma was a more awkward conversation. Carmel N'Goma owed her office to him, and she knew it, and he was sure she resented it. But the proud and insightful politician was always willing to listen to him, and seldom interfered with Percy Weasley, her "aide," in any significant way. There wasn't much cause for complaint, especially when compared to her more antagonistic predecessors, such as Junius Simplewort Smith, but it was still uncomfortable when they spoke. She discussed He Jin and the progress the Obliviators had made with cleaning up yesterday's conflicts. Harry was polite, but moved on as soon as it seemed like he'd given her enough respectful attention. There were more important people to see.

Hermione met him as he walked towards the Honourable, stepping in alongside him. Harry nodded to her, and she returned the nod. The expression on her face was ambiguous - he wasn't sure if the twist to her mouth was anxiety or amusement. Esther walked in Hermione's wake, golden gauntlet on one hand and a wary look on her face.

The crowd murmured. Gathered people parted. Harry stiffened.

Draco.

One hand rested on the silver snake-head of his father's cane. His mother held his other arm, her face wearing a fixed smile of obvious falsity. She was looking elsewhere, pointedly. Draco, on the other hand, was staring right at Harry. He looked noble - or rather like one would hope from nobility, although Harry had found that reality usually fell short. The head of House Malfoy wore a black Muggle suit with a sharply-colored tie like a vertical slash of serpentine green. The clothing wasn't only ironic, but it also served to accentuate his trim athleticism. He was watching Harry with a smirk on his face.

"If you have seen to your patients, Mr. Potter-Evans-Verres," said Draco, "shall we speak of recent events?"

The voice brought back a flood of memories.

"_Hello. Hogwarts, too?"_

"_Father once missed a Wizengamot vote for me. I was on a broom and I fell off and broke a lot of ribs. It really hurt. I'd never hurt that much before and I thought I was going to die. So Father missed this really important vote, because he was there by my bed at St. Mungo's, holding my hands and promising me that I was going to be okay."_

_"So. Science. You're going to tell me about blood."_

_"You call that a warning? You call that a warning? When we're doing a ritual that calls for a permanent sacrifice? "_

"_Allies?" "Allies."_

_"I'll help you fix the problem with Slytherin House hating Muggleborns. And I'll say it was sad that Lily Potter died."_

_"But let's get one part of it straight. You wronged me. And you owe me."_

_"You should die. You should die for having killed Father."_

"_If you can give me that, I will do anything. I will do anything. I will break the world, if I have to. But if you fail to hold up your end, I will break you, instead. Do you understand me, Potter?"_

"_Granger can't handle this, Potter. She can't cast it. And she's killing herself with trying."_

"_Harry… no... Oh, Harry… what will we do? What can we do?"_

"_I am the knife. And it will be a grand thing… to cut."_

Harry blinked rapidly, but could feel tears running down his cheeks, anyway. That was okay. Maybe even desirable, he thought distantly. It would humanize him, and it would be a story, and it really didn't matter worth a damn anyway since he couldn't have stopped crying, even if he'd wanted to.

"Yes, Lord Malfoy. We can speak in the meeting room?" Harry said. His throat felt like it was closing up with emotion, but his voice sounded weirdly normal. "We can agree on some basic things, I think, before we are joined by the many people who deserve to speak their piece."

"Agreed," said Draco calmly.

Harry stepped back a pace and raised one arm to indicate the door, bowing his head slightly in high style. It was a dramatic gesture, and put everyone's eyes on Draco again for a moment, while Harry pulled himself together.

_Theatre for the masses_.

Draco nodded. He turned to kiss his mother's cheek, gave his friend Gregory Goyle his own reassuring nod, and walked towards the door. Harry and Hermione followed. Draco's cane tapped loudly on the stone underfoot as they left, cutting through the renewed whispers of the representatives of the world's great powers.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_One month ago_

_Somewhere_

Fenrir Greyback was a ruin of scars and blood. Werewolves must have prey. The call of the moon induces a blood-madness among the cursed. If they have no prey, then they worry at their own flesh.

There are ways to mitigate the suffering, of course.

The most brutal method is for the werewolf to simply arrange prey to hunt during the full moon. The savage wolf will not turn on itself so long as it can savour the richness of human flesh. In the old times, certain warlords of India were known to indulge themselves in this manner, believing that the lives their beast-selves consumed would perpetuate their own. More than one legend hints that this was the very origin of lycanthropy, born from the desperate efforts of a mad mage to preserve his youth.

More humane lycanthropes were forced to try to restrain their animal selves, designing and constructing pit traps or bonds that would hold the raging wolf. While the wolf could tear steel like soft cheese, willing goblins would sell so-called "crinos chains" that were impervious to tooth and muscle. Unfortunately, this led to an easy way for the wizarding authorities to trace and hunt down the lycanthrope purchaser, so far too many werewolves chose not to run the risk. Many more innocents were maimed or killed as a result.

The miracles of modern potioneering, however, have allowed the lycanthropes of today to consume the Wolfsbane Potion. This amazing elixir can't prevent the change, but it does stop the transformed wolf from being driven into a rage. For twenty years, werewolves have been able to stop the excesses of their beast-selves.

Soon enough, however, the knowledge of that potion may pass from memory, for there has been a cure for lycanthropy for nearly five years. The brilliant wizards of the Tower discovered it, and the story passed in whispers from sufferer to sufferer.

Not everyone sought the cure at first, fearing that it was a trick. Such ploys had been tried before by wizard governments, and those accursed with the greatest hope often paid the greatest price. But when one friend after another returned, wiped clean of their moon-taint, even the most cynical of lycanthropes let themselves be persuaded to take the trip to the Tower. They were not disappointed. Very nearly every one of them had gone.

Not Fenrir Greyback.

Fenrir was a werewolf at war. He had sworn eternal opposition to the government, to the uncursed, to Muggles, and to anyone and everyone else. His resentment was as unreasoning and savage as the beast he became each month.

It has been said that no one is ugly from the inside. But Fenrir had nothing but hatred in him, burning him up like a hot coal of spite. It burned in his belly and distorted his mind. Was he insane? Was he sick? Was he evil?

Semantics.

Fenrir was a werewolf at war, and let that be enough for now.

There was no end to the war, even now, as he wept with anger and beat at the bars of his cage. Chains shackled him to the wall, bolted there with spikes of metal as thick as his human wrist.

An elf would come and feed him, sometimes. He didn't know how long it was between the meals - hours? days? - when the sneering elf in a ragged belt would throw him thick chunks of meat. And sometimes he would wake up with blood in his mouth. That was how he kept track of the months. That was how he knew he was being used.


	35. Ekkyklema

_The word 'galaxy' is derived from the Greek word galaxias which means "milky", it is a reference to our own galaxy the Milky Way._

_There are potentially more than 170 billion galaxies in the observable universe. Some, called dwarf galaxies, are very small with about 10 million stars, while others are huge containing an estimated 100 trillion stars._

_\- _From _Fun Galaxy Facts for Kids, _Science Kids

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_Buddha told a parable in sutra:_

_A man traveling across a field encountered a tiger. He fled, the tiger after him. Coming to a precipice, he caught hold of the root of a wild vine and swung himself down over the edge. The tiger sniffed at him from above. Trembling, the man looked down to where, far below, another tiger was waiting to eat him. Only the vine sustained him._

_Two mice, one white and one black, little by little started to gnaw away the vine. The man saw a luscious strawberry near him. Grasping the vine with one hand, he plucked the strawberry with the other. How sweet it tasted!_

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

Harry, Hermione, and Draco sat at the meeting table. Harry and Hermione sat on one side, and Draco on the other. The aurors left. The three were alone.

It was quiet for a long time, as they looked at each other. Each of them scrutinized the others, openly and calmly. It seemed to Harry like it lasted for minutes on end. There was time to notice everything, even in this familiar room. The texture of the stones. The smooth wood of the table. Even the slight angles to the walls which made it into a gentle trapezoid, to suit the triangular shape of the Tower itself.

Draco Malfoy: cold and elegant, managing deception with an ironic smirk on his face. Hermione Granger: beautiful and powerful, so fiercely passionate and intelligent that her strength seemed almost superfluous. And Harry himself, who did his best to follow the truth wherever it led.

They looked at each other, old enemies and old friends. A wordless... _something _hung in the air. Not tension, but a heaviness, as though the very air were weary.

Finally, Hermione got out of her seat, her chair scraping the floor. She walked over to the wall of the room, and placed both hands on it. Gently, she leaned her head forward until it rested against the stone. She stood motionless for a moment, then turned her head until her cheek lay against the wall and Harry could see her eyes once more. She stared distantly at nothing - at memories.

"I'm not sure what to do. Or what to feel," she said. Her voice was so quiet that Harry could barely hear her. "It's not your fault - either of you. You can't help it, and you can't really be blamed. It doesn't seem _fair _to blame you."

"Granger," said Draco, softly.

"I've really tried, though. I gave Harry the opportunity to tell me. I mean, my god, it's been a _week_, only a _week_ since he admitted about going easy on you, Draco. He admitted to exactly as much as he thought he needed to admit, and nothing else. He didn't say anything about working with you or Alastor - oh, Merlin, _Alastor_! He never said anything, either. Another person who didn't think I could handle it." She rocked her head in place, shaking it, and closed her eyes. Then she barked a short, bitter laugh. "Ha! And to think, he and I had a conversation last year about what we'd do if someone _Imperiused_ you, Harry - what we'd do if you'd actually _already_ been turned by someone in Draco's group. Alastor said, 'I think I'd know.' " She laughed again, and it was an ugly sound. "How little you three must think of me!" She opened her eyes again, and pushed away from the wall, turning back around to face Harry and Draco once more. "Or are there more?" she asked. "How big is this confederacy of dunces?"

Harry glanced over at Draco, eyebrows raised. Draco nodded. Harry turned back to Hermione, and said with an even voice, "Four people. Four people thought of this plan."

"How did-" said Draco, but Hermione interrupted him.

"How did I figure out that you two were working together from the start? That the break between you was a hoax - a trick you were playing on all the _dupes_?" she asked, her voice harsh.

Draco nodded. He'd grown into his features over the years, and the sharp lines of his face had resolved into the lean masculine edge of maturity, Harry noticed. It gave him a solemn air, well beyond his years, as he watched Hermione with a calm and steady gaze.

"Boston," she snapped. "The body of Tarleton Gest - and by the way, Draco, 'Tarleton' and 'Kemp?' Why would you advertise that your spies were actors? It was blind luck that no one else with a decent education noticed that."

Draco set both palms on the head of his cane, setting it between his legs and examining it with detachment. "Tarleton is not an uncommon name, and there are remarkably few walking encyclopedias on staff at the Council of Westphalia. And anyway, Django and Terrence were first-level spies. If no one ever figures out you're spying, after all, then you aren't any sort of threat. We needed to get them out of there, and we needed some blood for credibility."

Hermione leaned back against the wall, and closed her eyes again. "I just wish… I don't even know _what_ I wish. It looks like your plan _worked_. There's a room full of people out there, and a world of wizards beyond, who have been fooled. Most of them think you two have been enemies. Some of them will probably figure out that Harry deliberately permitted the Honourable to centralize his opposition, and they'll think they're the clever ones who see the real truth. A small few might put two and two together and deduce that Alastor was Amycus Carrow from the start - or whatever other fallback deception you've arranged for them, to preserve the ultimate secret. Maybe I'm missing one… maybe there are more levels beyond that. There was redundancy upon redundancy, and it all worked."

_Sacrifices need to be made, sometimes,_ thought Harry. _Sometimes we must sacrifice precious things, like our trust in our friends._

"There was another one beyond that, in case Draco or I or both of us were taken out of the picture," said Harry. "A last failsafe."

Hermione laughed again. It was soft and sad. "You figured out every little thing. And the world will be better for it. People will be saved. It doesn't matter that you didn't trust me, either of you." She opened her eyes again, and looked at Harry. "And that's what you're thinking, right? You're thinking that my feelings don't matter even a tiny little bit, not when compared to anyone's life - not when compared to the lives of entire nations. And you're right about that, too."

That wasn't what Harry was thinking.

"You're not selfish, Hermione," he said. "You're… you've… you've given more to the world than any of us. You've sacrificed…" _Your phoenix. Your life. More._

She paused at that, and her mouth tightened. "I don't know. Life isn't a play, and it's not fair. I'm just hurt, but what does it matter when such big things are going around? I just thought… to be honest, I just thought I was _right_." She looked from Harry to Draco, her eyes wet and her mouth sharp with self-disgust. "When Voldemort almost returned, a lot of pain and loss happened because Harry didn't trust Headmaster Dumbledore. Your father, Draco, and so many other people." Draco flinched a bit at that, breaking his cool demeanour for a moment, but she was already staring at Harry again. "I might not have died, if you'd trusted the Headmaster more. Or trusted _me _more." Despite her words, her voice was quiet and calm. "And I thought you'd learned from that. Learned from Azkaban, when you let me go. Let me _try_."

"I did," said Harry, plaintively. "And-"

"But all you learned was that you had to be more clever. Had to think harder and prepare more and be more creative. So when it came time to create a plan to save the world, you left me out of it. I'm not a good actress, or some other perfectly reasonable thing, right? I just… I don't know why I feel this way, all confused. I'm fine with it and outraged at the same time, and it's just…" She sighed, and sank down, back sliding down the stone.

"Hermione," said Draco, rising to his feet. He walked over to her with three quick strides. His cane fell to the floor behind him, silver head clanging against the stone, but he ignored it. In a moment, he was on his knees beside her, pulling her to him in a tight hug. "_Stop._" He darted a quick look at Harry, and his face was a command. "Do it, Harry."

But Harry already had his wand out. "You're right, Hermione. I _did _learn to be more clever," he said. "And I learned trusting you is the clever thing to do. _Eunoe._"

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_The doorway was mostly blocked by the remains of the Thief's Downfall trough, which had been broken free of its pins on one side. The large brass tray had swung down at an angle, and was currently pouring out its contents in a never-ending torrent on the floor. The enchanted liquid soaked Harry's shoes and socks as he edged past._

_Once inside, he took a good look around and sighed. The Tower was a ruin. All the windows were broken, two walls had been melted into thick pools of cooled slag, and half of the roof had caved in. The golems had been smashed until barely anything remained; Harry could see the palm of a scorched clay hand, clipped of fingers and dismembered from its wrist, flopping in an aimless and pathetic circle. It was breezy and fresh. The open air had swept away most of the stink of fire._

_Draco and Hermione were already there. They had their wands out, and the clear area around them revealed that they were cleaning up some of the mess. Or had been, anyway._

"_I don't know the spell, and wouldn't cast it if I did," Hermione was saying. "It's a dark curse and it requires a permanent sacrifice. I just… I'm not about to start boiling off my blood, okay?"_

"_Granger," said Draco, shaking his head and rolling his eyes, "we don't even know if you'd really lose that blood. You'll probably just regenerate it. And if you did, you have plenty to spare. You'll be fine."_

"_I'm not going to do it, so you can forget it," the young witch replied._

"_What's the matter?" asked Harry. Draco just glanced over, but Hermione started violently at the sudden noise. "Sorry," said Harry, frowning at his own lack of consideration. She was… delicate since she'd come back this second time, and he needed to be more careful._

"_The walls are all melted here from the Fiendfyre, and we can't clean it up. Most spells don't affect the stone of Hogwarts, thanks to the doughty enchantments of Salazar Slytherin," said Draco, gesturing at a knee-high piece of stone that sat in a twisted, smooth lump along one of the edges of the room. "That seems to be true even after the stuff has already been melted."_

"_Just… let's not worry about it for now," Harry said. He felt exhausted, and his mouth tasted foul. That was from the adrenaline, he knew. That bitter taste that had tingled his tongue at the moment of crisis, when fire fought fire, and which left a nasty tang long after it had passed._

_He walked over to the lump of stone and stared at it for a long moment, and then sat down on it, gingerly. "So we're not going to rebuild. Not like the way it was before. Not without safeguards on an entirely different scale."_

_Hermione touched her wand to a half-burnt piece of wood - the remains of a table, perhaps - and it slid fluidly into the form of a new and shiny metal stool. She sat on it._

_Draco did not sit. He stared at the ragged remains of one wall which studded the edge of the room with ruined blobs of stone like rotten teeth._

_They all thought for five minutes._

"_Artifacts of power are the key, I think," said Draco. "Father once spent a full year trying to bribe his way to the last of Satomi's Dogs - the one Grindelwald didn't get, that they have in Cyprus."_

"_It's probably not really in Cyprus," Harry reflected. "Madame Bones says that Cyprus and Cappadocia go to war every hour, on the hour. And it does seem like they're always bristling at one insult or another, and threatening to attack. You'd think they'd have learned after the sixth or seventh war that they were wasting time, money, and lives, but… nope. Politics is insane and is never going to make any sense to me."_

"_Some sort of device, though," said Hermione. "There are legends about things like the Arch of Ulak Unconquered, or that goblet that they used to use for the Triwizard Tournament, back when they still did that. Or there was another goblet that was even more powerful, I think. I'll have to check _Undoubted Redoubtables._" Harry gave her a worried glance at this - she seldom needed to double-check her recollections, was this a problem with her new body? - but she was already moving on. "With the Interdict ensuring that uncommon or powerful spells are gradually lost over time, any old device is usually going to be pretty impressive in our eyes - able to beat out any modern wizard's best efforts. If we got our hands on the Arch, then we wouldn't even need to worry. Those sorts of devices are… elemental forces."_

"_Even the greatest artifact can be defeated by a counter-artifact that is lesser, but specialized," said Harry, echoing Voldemort's words from last year. "Not that you're wrong about any of that, of course - and there is one thing we particularly need, I think, if we're ever going to rescue the Headmaster - but it's not sufficient. We need to try to ensure that we control everything… not just every aspect of security, but every aspect of our attackers, too."_

"_You're talking about putting someone out there to take charge of the opposition," said Hermione, looking over at him and frowning. "That way we'd really be in charge of attacks like…" She trailed off, looking back at the blasted remains of the Tower._

_Draco scuffed the toe of his boot along the stone near his foot, where the heat had rendered it into glassy ripples. It made a scraping sound. He said nothing._

"_It would mean that we wouldn't need to worry so much. We could concentrate on the real villains - the people who want to hurt others. Not the people who…" He paused. He needed to talk around the fate of Draco's father. He hadn't yet fulfilled that promise to Draco, and he knew the topic would still be raw. Maybe for years, it would be raw. "Not the decent but misguided people," he finished lamely._

"_So we tame a bad guy, hope we have him under control, and let his organization grow? I'm not so sure about this mujahadeen you're planning," Hermione said, still frowning. "What about epistemic closure? We're already planning on taking control of the government-"_

"_And fixing the problems of representation!" interrupted Harry, raising a finger in objection to her summary._

"_Yes, I know, and I accept the necessity of it, since it would be willful blindness to ignore the realities of the political puppet show and pretend the system works, but that doesn't mean I'm really comfortable with our little First Triumvirate, Gaius Julius Potter," retorted Hermione. She shook her head. "But the actual competition of ideas is important in a country. If we're running things, and we're also running the main opposition, then how are we ever going to recognize when we're making serious mistakes? And that's just assuming this won't backfire on us… we could wind up empowering a real threat."_

"_Only we will know about it," said Harry. "It won't be a fake opposition movement. It'll be a real opposition movement… but just one that we control. Ideas will still be exchanged, compete, and evolve. We won't get in the way of-"_

"_I read _The Selfish Gene_, don't explain it to me. Hush," said Hermione. She looked up at Draco. "You know what we're all thinking, Draco. What Harrry-" and she shot him a look "-isn't actually asking, since he's waiting for you to volunteer."_

"_I am the obvious choice to lead the opposition," said Draco, quietly. He scuffed at the stone underfoot again. "Son of a blood purist and last scion of a great house. Son of a Death Eater. The 'Silver Slytherin' who uses both science and magic. A Slytherin raised by one of the greatest leaders in wizarding history… whose widow hates the Tower and writes scathing letters to _The Prophet_." He turned to Hermione and shook his head. "This isn't fair. It's so… I mean, it's obvious. It's like... " He hesitated. "I feel like I've been shaped for this, honestly. Made for this. But I don't know if that's… good. Or right."_

"_You never saw yourself as the opposition," said Harry. "No one ever does. Everyone is the hero of their own story." He sighed. "But people will believe it. They'll believe that story without blinking an eye. It's hard to go too over the top with these sorts of things, I've heard."_

"_No, that's not what I mean," said Draco. "It's that… Imagine that you were a piece of metal, and someone used the Simpleshape Charm to make you into a knife. And you always thought you were going to be used to cut something. You thought you needed to cut… that it was the only thing to do. That you owed it to your family. You're a knife. You cut. But then, somewhere along the line, you realize that a knife can do a lot of things. You can pry a cork out of a bottle, or scrape a bicorn hide, or…" He gestured vaguely. "Or… whatever."_

_Hermione reached out with her foot, and kicked lightly against the side of his boot. A small gesture. _I'm here, it's okay_, it said._

_Draco went on after a moment. "So if after all that, one day you decided to go ahead and cut…" He shrugged. "It feels… like I wouldn't be doing the right thing. Somehow."_

"_Then we don't do it," said Harry. "We'll figure something else out."_

"_As simple as that?" asked Hermione, raising her eyebrows and looking back over at him._

"_As simple as that," he said, shrugging. And he meant it. It had taken a long time, but at some point he'd realized that it wasn't a good idea to use your friends without their knowledge or full consent. Or, at least, that Harry just wasn't smart enough to do that, even if it could be twisted into seeming ethical. It was hard enough to figure out anyone's real preferences, much less ignore them in favor of their hypothetical future preferences._

"_No," said Draco. "It's a good idea. And if it's done properly, it will be an idea worthy of any Malfoy. Leading half the country… no, leading half the world…" He sounded thoughtful, and Harry could already hear the possibilities tumbling through the blond boy's head._

_(And despite everything he'd vowed to himself over and over, Harry realized that he'd been as persuasive as possible in this conversation, even choosing the right moment to back off and let Draco have the room to feel comfortable asserting his own choice, almost subconsciously using his estimates of Draco's thought processes to influence the results of his friend's decision, even taking into account that Draco was a clever plotter on par with anyone living and that he had pride in that fact, and he wondered if it was okay to use a tool of the dark arts of rationality to make someone change their mind if it was for the greater good, and Harry felt his stomach sink as he seized the thought and crushed it with a fierce rejection, deciding to himself that this was a Voldemort thought and that he wasn't going to do that sort of thing because it was _stupid_ and that his dark side was the transfer of the mental habits of a very clever fully-grown sociopath and he had no particular need for an evil black box inside of his head and he was _done with it_ and that was that. So there.)_

"_Wait, Draco," he said, quickly. "Think it through. You were right… you can do anything you want. You can keep putting together the Science Program. You can go into the Wizengamot and take your father's seat. You can do - literally - anything you want to do."_

"_No," said Draco. And a small smile touched his lips. "I am the knife. And it will be a grand thing… to cut." He turned and took a quick step to the edge of the room, and stood there, staring off into the distance. The sunlight cut him into a profile against the sky, and there was enough breeze to gently stir the single strand of hair artfully brushing his brow._

_Hermione snorted with laughter._

"_You are absurd," she said. "I am going to deliberately erase the last thirty seconds of my memory, because I cannot possibly reward this level of grandstanding." She threw a splinter of wood at him, and he batted it away with his palm. "Actually," she added, "that's not a bad idea."_

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

"Well," Hermione said. "I feel like an ass."

"A perfectly reasonable reaction," agreed Harry, cheerfully, as he put away his wand.

"On the other hand, you are _also_ an ass, and so is Draco, for letting me embarrass myself," mused Hermione. "So there's that." She paused. "This is… wow, this is terrible. I don't know how I feel about anything." She grimaced, and clenched her eyes shut, leaning forward slightly from her position at the foot of the wall. Draco, who still had his arms around her, settled back and let her go. He pushed himself back off of his knees, sitting down next to her, but giving her a little space.

"Hermione... " said Harry, acutely aware that they had the gathered magical powers of the whole world waiting on the results of this conference in a room that was too small, didn't have much room for chairs, and was just generally making a bad impression.

Draco gave him a short, sharp shake of the head. Taking the hint, Harry quieted. This _was_ a lot to understand. Locked memories couldn't be accessed in any way, but that didn't mean that they didn't happen. The events that occurred left an impression on the person who experienced them, and that impression wasn't affected. And that person's life didn't stop… new memories and impressions accumulated and continued to shape their personality and their internal idea of themselves. To suddenly reach deep into that person's memory and unleash the hidden past… well, they would have to try to reprocess everything that had happened.

"All right," she said, after a while. She put a hand on Draco's shoulder and squeezed, and pushed herself to her feet. "So how is this going to work? You two are going to come to a tentative and difficult agreement on ending the conflict, and consolidate everyone behind you? I guess Draco will go to Russia and Cappadocia and the lot, and say that he needs them to commit to supporting any deal, so he can 'bargain' with a stronger hand?" She sounded remarkably steady, all things considering, and if she was angry at either of them, it looked like she had set it aside for the moment.

"Yes," said Harry, quietly. Hermione walked back to the table, and Draco followed. They sat back down. They looked at each other, old enemies and old friends.

"We'll decide how to spook them, and get them to agree," continued Harry. "They'll help us out in that regard… they want to appear strong to the world and save face, so anything we do to frighten them is something they'll work to keep quiet. On another level, we'll do some clumsy bribery of a few reliably corrupt politicians… these bribes won't work since those sorts of folks won't stay 'bought' - but both things working together should be enough to put Draco in solid command."

"Levels and levels," said Hermione. "And so… what will eventually happen, as this detente is sorted? Will you two just be in charge of the Tower together… power sharing? Or will Draco take over the government, to have another pole of power? We haven't talked about it, but I just assume that you have some sort of convoluted plan, worked out to the nth degree, where Draco and you continue to 'fight' each other with minor intrigues?"

Draco picked his cane up from the ground. He stared down at the head of it - a silver snake. "Do we even want to do that? Shouldn't we be trying to change things… with more ambition?"

"That's up to you two, really," said Harry, "and it's not something we have to decide today. We have weeks of peace negotiations to plan that out." He smiled weakly. "I haven't decided what I want to do, yet. I wasn't sure at all how this would go, today. Honestly, I thought that we would have missed something." He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, sighing. "And you were right in a lot of ways, last week, Hermione. When you yelled at me and broke my table. I should have told you before now… I shouldn't have stuck to the plan and waited until now."

_If someone is your full partner, you don't use a grand strategy that leaves them in the dark. That's what you do with subordinates._

"_Our office has determined that by far the largest vulnerability, flaw, or weakness in the Tower continues to be the reliance on a single figurehead and leader, Harry Potter-Evans-Verres."_

_Somehow, he'd never altered the curve of any of these patterns. Draco, Hermione, optimization… even as he grew and matured and learned, everything kept taking the same shape._

"I don't think I should be in charge anymore," he said, and his voice was even quieter. "I think - whatever we do - we should bring in more people. Bones, Moody, or maybe Luna." Glancing at Draco, he added, "Or Shacklebolt or Goyle… I know they've done well and true over these past few years. It was a fine line to walk - being the bad guys without being bad - but they never seemed to stumble."

"A conspiracy. We'll need menacing hoods," said Draco. He said it calmly and seriously, and it brought back such memories that Harry had to blink hard to keep the tears from his eyes. "But you were right before, Harry. We don't need to decide anything now. We probably _shouldn't_. There will be enough planning just to work out the peace process so that we can bring everyone together into one organization."

"Well," said Harry, smiling now even though his eyes were burning. "I guess I agree."

_So many years now of being in charge of everything, and working with Hermione while never letting her get at the deepest levels of planning, and not being able to ask either of them about things… all those years gone by, and now maybe it will be like it was. You can never go back again - not really - but there's no reason we can't find that same… rhythm. That same pattern of working together._

There was a time when nothing hurt and everything was possible. When the dark shape of that black arc that cut through his life seemed like it was fading under the twin lights of a bright sun and brilliant moon. When Harry and Hermione and Draco had been determined to forge a new world together, and all the darkness and madness seemed to have faded away.

He wasn't sure exactly when he knew it wasn't going to be so simple. Maybe he'd always known it, from the moment he'd sat with shocked adults in the Headmaster's office and read a pair of letters written by the wisest man he'd ever known. It's easy to make big plans, especially when it seems like you've got your finger on the pulse of the world, but it just takes one errant element to bring the whole machine to a crashing halt.

But that long game of balancing was over. It had been…

_Oh._

Harry remembered what he and Hermione had noticed yesterday. He smiled again, and now the tears were running down his cheeks. "Hermione, it's Walpurgisnacht. The whole damn thing is going to be finished, and it's been almost exactly six years. The world will be… we've done it. We've done it. In six years, we've done it. That's…"

"Poetic," said Draco. "Like a play."

"Life isn't like a play," said Harry.

"Sometimes it is," said Hermione.

_Sometimes it is._

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

Security at Hogwarts and at the Tower was at a higher alert than it had ever been. There were seven layers of security and no fewer than three groups overseeing them. Leaders or adjutants of some of the most powerful countries and organizations in the magical world were here, representing a gathering of power unmatched since the Sontag Summit of 1939. Yet by unspoken agreement, there were few intrigues. Everyone - from neonate healer to veteran counselor - knew that too much hung in the balance. The Honourable and the Tower were meeting for the first time in years, and if anything disturbed their efforts at peace… well, the entire globe could pay in years of blood.

The powerful of the world stood and chatted and hoped. Some handful prayed.

But despite all the tension and all the security - or maybe because of it - when the enemy began arriving in the Receiving Room, shrugging off the stunning effects of Safety Pole and Safety Stick, no one was ready. Haggard and vicious men appeared, clad in rags of black, and began to kill. Anyone. Everyone.

No one was ready for the wild woman who arrived by some unknown spell of staggering puissance - a chariot of fire, that erupted into being in the center of the room. She shrieked with hellish laughter as she began casting her curses.

She wielded her wand with an arm and hand of polished ebony. Her eyes were ablaze with madness and hatred.

"I'm here, my Lord!" she screamed, as her followers rushed the entrance and overmastered the guards. The lunatic men, covered in scars, flooded into the Receiving Room by the dozens. More arrived with every passing minute, every passing _second_. They were poor combatants and weak duelists, but they overwhelmed the aurors by sheer weight of numbers. You cannot duel an army.

The attackers threw themselves in the path of the shield of goblin silver, blocking it. They smashed Dark Detectors and annihilated the chizpurfles with waves of flame. They drowned defenders in their very blood, crushed them with their weight. Fire and blood poured across the stone.

"I'm here! I'm here I'm here I'm here I'm here!" chanted the madwoman: their leader, their deity.

Bellatrix Black was come to the Tower.


	36. Esse Quam Videri

_Trigger warning: violence, dismemberment, and death._

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_Dum spiro spero._

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_PERILOUS PEACE PROCESS PROCEEDS_

_by Simone Sprout_

_Delegations from more than thirty magical states will meet today at the Tower at Hogwarts for the start of important peace talks related to the recent unrest around the world, along with influential representatives to the Confederation and key Wizengamot members. The different groups will meet with Minister for Magic N'Goma and her deputies, and the Minister has requested that Dean Harry Potter advise and assist the peace process. The summit will focus on resolving the issues dividing the signatory states of the Treaty for Health and Life and the more recent Treaty of Independence, including aspects of the Tower's rejuvenation process that have come into question, the intrusiveness of Safety Poles and their associated facilities, and questions about representation of Beings in local governments._

_Yesterday's conflicts, which sprang up between Health states and Independent states, brought violence to places as far-flung as Antarctica, the United States, Paris, and Cyprus, and as nearby as Diagon Alley, Godric's Hollow, and the Ministry of Magic. The skirmishes have led a general sense of fear and hundreds of wounded or captured wizards on both sides, although at press time it had become apparent that Russian claims about their prisoners were greatly exaggerated; fewer than a dozen British or allied aurors had been confirmed missing. _

_In a statement sent to several news organizations, the leader of the group informally known as the "Honourable," Lord Draco Malfoy, announced that he would also be present at the summit, speaking on behalf of the Treaty of Independence and the interests of a conservative faction in the Wizengamot. While his seat has been suspended for the past three years, Lord Malfoy is widely known to be one of the most influential figures behind both the Independents and the British Honourable._

"_We will address all of the issues that have forced the wizards of Britain and the world to rise up against this oppressive force," wrote Lord Malfoy to _The Prophet_. "To name just one, the use of Muggle methods of arithmancy might have put more Galleons in everyone's pocket, but they've also driven up the prices of even the most basic of goods. Since last year, Floo powder has been three Sickles a scoop. It's a process known as 'inflation,' and the reckless abandon with which this Government and the Tower have been managing Britain must come to an end, before every house is forced to begin mortgaging their cauldrons to goblins just to pay for Floo powder! At minimum, more wizards must be trained in Muggle arithmancy, so that they can protect magic and the magical from the wandless hordes."_

_A spokesperson for the Tower refused comment on Lord Malfoy's accusations, saying only that "the Tower recognizes the legitimate concerns of many in Magical Britain and the world, and will act at the behest of Minister for Magic N'Goma to address these issues."_

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_Office of Harry Potter-Evans-Verres, Hogwarts, Scotland_

_November 20th, 1992_

_8:23 am_

_Seven years ago_

"Over there," said Draco, pointing at one side of Harry's office. "Just eight beds - no, ten of them. They should be appropriately simple in style, but of good quality wood. And keep quiet about it, would you?"

The house elf frowned, ducking his head down and shaking it from side to side briskly, like a cat worrying a mouse. "I'm most sorry, my lord, most sorry, but we cannot. Students are not permitted to order furniture, unless a prefect issues the request. I know you were allowed to order furniture by Professor Quirrell's orders, sir, but he is no longer employed here. I am most sorry, my lord, but perhaps I could go check with your prefect?"

"Please just take care of it, Kuttle," said Harry as he walked in through the door. His wand was out, and he was walking backwards, carefully maneuvering an enormous box of dull grey metal that was floating along behind him. "And treat all those sorts of requests from Draco just the same as if they came from me, please." He paused and looked over his shoulder at Draco, who was glaring at him. "Sorry about that, Draco, they don't-"

"Mr. Potter, sir, I'm sorry, but you can not order furniture either. Unless I check with one of your prefects, or a professor? I am most sorry, sirs," said the elf. He lifted his hands up to his ears and clutched them, nervously. "I have no choice, you see…"

Draco was smirking. "So the legend-in-his-own-time _Harry Potter_ still isn't allowed to order furniture, either? He hasn't been made Secret Headmaster or Professor of Self-Importance or anything like that? He still needs to trot off and check up with, ah, Robert Hilliard or another prefect before he gets a new chair?"

"Yes, my lord," said Kuttle, twisting his ears in his hands. He was a bundle of busy energy, and he was holding one foot slightly off of the ground. It trembled as he stood there. It wasn't clear if this situation was making him uncomfortable or if he just found it intolerable to stand still.

"Well, it's just-" started Harry. He floated the metal box over to a corner and let it come to a gentle rest, releasing his spell.

"What about curtains? Can he order curtains?" asked Draco, and now his voice was saccharine sweet.

"No, my lord," said Kuttle.

"I just-" said Harry, turning around indignantly.

"How about a goblet with his initials on it? Wait, sorry, I'm being silly. There wouldn't be enough room on a goblet. How about a bucket?" said Draco, folding his arms in front of him. There was a look of tremendous delight on his face.

"No, my lord," said Kuttle, vibrating in place with anxiety.

"You're bothering him!" said Harry, frowning. There was no sense causing the strange creatures any discomfort. They had enough problems. He turned to the elf. "Please just speak to the Deputy Headmaster about it. I'm sure he'll give you instructions."

"Yes, sir!" said Kuttle eagerly, letting go of his ears with obvious relief. He snapped his fingers, and vanished, leaving only a nervous quiver in the air as he departed.

"It's important to know the rules," said Draco with a grin, walking over to Harry. "I was using the Socratic method to discover the exact-"

"Listen, my melanin-challenged friend," said Harry, "if you tease them, you're going to end up with hardtack for your tea."

"I have my own elf, anyway," Draco said. He waved a hand dismissively, his sleeve swaying. The boy was wearing his Slytherin robes, even though he wasn't technically a student anymore. In fact, by the laws of Magical Britain, he wasn't even a _child_ anymore. He was nobility and he'd achieved at least five O.W.L.s (seven, in fact), so he was an adult in the eyes of the government.

He pointed at the metal box, which was nearly as tall as Harry. "What's that?"

"A Muggle computer and some car batteries," said Harry, brightening. "I know that it's hard to get electronics to work around magic, but this is a half-inch of lead. I'm going to put a larger cube of lead around it with a sliding cover, and only then open up this one. If this doesn't work, I'm going to try using plates of goblin-forged silver - there are some big platters on a shelf near the Hufflepuff greenhouse that look pretty fancy, and I bet they'll work. My hypothesis is that stray spells are to blame - probably a particular sort of spell, too. Charms like Verdimillious or the like."

"Muggleborns have been trying to get electronics to work - mostly televisions - in Hogwarts for fifty years," said Draco, shaking his head. "You're wasting your time, Potter. Think in terms of… think in terms of opportunity costs. You could be doing more useful things. We need some propaganda, for example. You're terrible at it. And we need to sow some false leads about how we're doing the healing - the fake metamorphmagus research I mentioned."

"I know, I know… I'm trying to get all of those things in motion, too. We're going to optimize the world, and that means trying to coordinate a thousand different things and manage the million different consequences. Even the transition to a post-scarcity society, someday, is something we have to think about now - whether or not we even want to do it." Harry shrugged. "But I still need some time to myself. I'm not sure how long I could keep it up if I locked myself in a box and spent every waking minute devoted to other people. So… computer!" He smiled. "And I know other investigators have worked on this, but I bet those other investigators weren't using the scientific method. Whatever the problem, we'll probably end up just needing some sort of shielding. If nothing else, we can just keep transfiguring different sorts of insulation. In somewhere between a month to a year, we'll be compiling code." He rapped his knuckles against the lead box, smiling. The green gem on his ring clicked against the metal.

Draco nodded, but turned away, uninterested. He walked over to one side of the office and tapped his foot. "Ten beds here. And we'll station some patrol-wizards over here and over there. Four in here, four at the entrance, and two down the hall. Ten more patrol-wizards to manage the journey here puts the security staff at twenty at any one time. A total of maybe sixty or so."

"Moody agreed to this plan?" asked Harry, raising his eyebrows. "Bringing in the MPLE?"

"MLEP," corrected Draco, and Harry made a face. "And no, he hasn't yet. But he will. He wants to close Azkaban, ever since he and Hermione went on that trip to Wales. And more staff will help." Draco paused, as if considering his words, then spoke.

"Forty-seven members of the Wizengamot. Five seats are just out of our reach on any vote - Lestrange, Crabbe, Nott, Knop, and Carrow. Their _comes ad litem_ are all old family retainers or allies, and they were all picked specifically to be beyond influence. McGonagall and Bones made a mistake with Jugson's _ad litem_, since they picked Clancy, and he's a closet Euphoric. Still out of our reach, but we need to keep an eye on him in case someone else picks him up."

Harry raised a finger to interrupt, and Draco paused. "We might be able to fix that. I have plans for advancing the human body, and fixing the mesolimbic pathway is one of them. And you said 'Nott' twice."

"Kno_p_," said Draco. "New blood, from the nineteenth century." He moved on. "My mother is exercising my own seat still, and that will continue. Same with Goyle's, held by his uncle. Those are in reserve. Our independence is assumed, and the fact that we're working together is still quiet. Even if it becomes known, everyone will draw the wrong conclusions. And Mother is certainly helping with every cutting comment she makes in public."

Harry nodded. Narcissa Malfoy was one of the leading agitators in the Wizengamot, decrying the "cruel tricks and nasty games of a corrupt government." She'd rallied a contingent that had been thoroughly cowed, and given them confidence. She was beginning to be a political problem.

It was an uncomfortable thing, and Harry didn't want to dwell on it, so he remained silent. But he wondered about what had passed between Narcissa and the son with whom she was becoming acquainted. She, too, had lost Lucius, but she didn't have the hopes that Draco had been given. She didn't know about the possibilities of the future… about the world that might be, someday. A centaur had been proof of concept for Draco, but Narcissa didn't have that.

Perhaps Draco had made her other promises. The dark magics of legend held similar - if less palatable - possibilities. A Malfoy ascendant, unrestrained, could make many things happen. Was that what Narcissa held, in lieu of Draco's pure hopes? Or was Draco disconnected from her after ten years, and comfortable just leaving her in the darkness with her anger?

"Of the remaining thirty-nine seats," continued the Slytherin, and Harry returned his attention to his friend, "there are eighteen more held _suo jure_. No, that's not… ah, sorry, the Noble House of Granger - hoary with age - is nineteen. You have six of them by loyalty, including your own. You have five more by conviction or self-interest. Greengrass is changeable, but she goes the way the strong wind blows, and pulls Brookswith her. That means that we need twelve seats of the remaining twenty-eight members: eight members _suo jure_ and twenty of the Ministry's members _ex officio_. And we only have five of those twelve."

Harry was already there. "But two of the _ex officio_ members have connections to the DMLE. Nguyễn, whose wife is an auror at Azkaban, and Brandenburg." So if they gave those members of the Wizengamot a reason to believe that their little fiefdom would grow, rather than shrink, that might win them over. "Okay, sold."

"Moody will say something about how grizzled and experienced and paranoid he is, and then insist on full aurors instead of patrol-wizards," said Draco. "And that will be the debate in the Wizengamot, too."

"And you'll steer that, then? Bones is ours, and she's a realist, but I think she should stay out of keeping the terms of debate where we want them. Secret support for expanding the DMLE would bring a backlash against her," said Harry, thoughtfully.

"It would? Why, yes, Potter, I suppose it would," said Draco, his face agast in pretend astonishment. "My goodness, what if everyone involved in the vote has ulterior motives? How dreadful!"

"You are annoying, and so is our system of government. We're basically Muggle Indonesia."

" 'Everyone wants the Feverbreak, no one wants the flobberworm,' " said Draco, rolling his eyes. "It's just how things are done."

"Not for long," said Harry. "Hermione and I have plans."

At the sound of Hermione's name, Draco's face darkened. "You shouldn't bother her with things like that - she doesn't need any more pressure."

Harry walked away from the metal box, over to his desk. "I'm not going to… exclude her, not with those sorts of plans. She wants to be involved. She _needs_ to be involved." He settled into the chair behind the desk, and sighed. "She'll find her Patronus. We both know what kind of person she is."

"Granger can't handle this, Potter. She can't cast it. And she's killing herself with trying." Draco said, moving to one of the chairs in front of the desk and sitting down.

"I'm not encouraging her… I want her to rest, too. I think part of the reason she can't do it is that she's just exhausted. But… I'm not going to kick her out when she comes to me with plans. Or tell her to leave a discussion. When Lesath disappeared last week, she searched for hours - and came to me even later with a plan for searching the Forbidden Forest. How do I tell her to stay out of it?"

Harry remembered the look of the young girl when she brought him her notes about the relative merits of a spiral search, grid search, or strip search, asking for his input before she organized the aerial search. The search needed to not only be efficient (in case Lesath was in danger and lost in the Forest), but also provide for the possibility that his mother might be involved. But she'd looked like she was paper-thin with weariness, nervously plucking at the green-and-gold necklace that Draco had given her for her birthday two months ago. He'd told her that she needed to take a break… but he'd known that she wouldn't and that he shouldn't force her to.

Draco scowled. "It'll be on your head if anything happens to her," he said, with a note of warning in his voice.

"No, it won't," Harry replied, heavily. "And that's the point. Sometimes things get bad for someone. Sometimes they get _really_ bad. But that doesn't mean you take away their choices. Because…" He gestured at the air, searching for words. "Because… sometimes you don't know what a person's made of. What they can be."

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_John Snow Center for Medicine and Tower School of Doubt (The Tower)_

_April 30th, 1999_

_5:12 pm_

_Now_

"Seal the hall!" shouted Pip, shoving wildly at the broken corpse that was slumped across his chest. He pushed it up and back enough to kick himself free, scooting out from under the body of the attacker. "Seal it! Hit the wailers, set up a perimeter!"

Fernández didn't reply, but complied. He slammed the steel-bound door, and the air crackled as he engaged the seals, cutting the general ward and the rest of the clinic off from the north corridor with a shield of goblin silver and a dozen readied enchantments. Pip put a hand on the wall and hauled himself to his feet, jamming his fingers into a ragged scar on the stone for a hand-hold. His wand was already raised and pointing down the corridor again, although he didn't even remember picking it back up.

He gathered his will, and put up a Prismatic Shield, pushing it out so that it intersected with the walls and blocked off the corridor entirely. Once it was stable, he began putting up the Umbrella Barrier Bauble Charm, the logical next step. J.C. Kraeme pushed him to the side with her shoulder as she stepped up next to him and began preparing second-step wards for when his Shield went down. He spared her just enough of a glance to see that she'd healed most of her face. The skin was shiny and red; she'd rushed through the job so that she could get back into the fight.

Pip didn't even know how they got into this situation.

One minute everything was as quiet as a Gryffindor brainstorming session: he was on post outside of the clinic in the north corridor, trying to think of something intelligent to say to the Norden auror stationed with him. Tilma Kulgora was extremely beautiful and tall, and he was fairly sure they actually knew each other from when he'd been at Nurmengard.

The next minute, the response abacus began clacking loudly and the attackers had already streamed out of the Receiving Room, charging down the corridor.

Their enemies were all men, covered in red scars and howling in between curses. They favored the Hontheim Curse, Hippo's Fire, and other nasty dark curses, but they didn't bother with tactics or shielding… or even the Killing Curse. They seemed entirely mad, raving with anger, eyes wide and mouths stretching in screams that were so fervent that the muscles of their neck stood out from their flesh.

Kulgora followed protocol, and spun her time-turner while Pip began to stun and _Incarcerous _the attackers. Fernández and Kraeme joined him from within the clinic moments later, after ensuring that the pair of aurors in the discharge wing were ready for action. But even as the three defenders began taking down their opponents, there was an explosion of golden particles as Kulgora screamed and began to dissolve. Pip had just enough time to look over and see her time-turner malfunctioning, spitting bright motes of light that were eating away Kulgora's flesh like bloody basilisk venom. Then she was gone in a final swirl of fragmented light, although her scream lingered, sounding like it was calling from some great distance before fading away. The burst of gold that accompanied Kulgora's death sprayed out on the others - it took off Kraeme's face like a peeler and ate an irregular pattern into the stone of the walls. Kraeme collapsed behind Pip, blood pouring from her face, screaming.

Even as Pip fumbled with his free hand for his bubbler, he could hear a voice shout out of the resonator inside the clinic, yelling in the device's quavery metal voice not to use time-turners, that there was a new spell, that there was an attack, that everyone should adopt Protocol Apple.

_It must be Russia, it's always Russia,_ he had time to think. And then there was no more time for thinking at all.

It was hard to know exactly how long he'd already been fighting when Kraeme got back to her feet, but it was long enough that the corridor in front of them had been piled with bodies, two or three deep, and at least one _Incendio_ had scorched Pip's left arm and the side of his neck. He understood, now, how they'd gotten through the Receiving Room. There were so many of them that they must simply have swarmed the aurors. They were fighting like Muggles - using brute force and superior numbers to overwhelm. Even the most skilled fighter, they had warned Pip in training, couldn't reliably win in close-quarters combat with more than three people. Madame Bones had put it bluntly: "You only have one wand and two hands."

Pip felt the Umbrella Barrier Bauble Charm set into place, although it was too noisy to hear the quiet tinkle of bells that accompanied the ward. Their attackers had closed the distance to Pip and Kraeme, now that Pip had stopped cursing, and they were already hammering on his Prismatic Shield. He pulled it out of suspension before it could be lost, and put his will behind it once more. Six attackers - seven, no, _eight_, with more arriving every moment - were firing curse after curse into the shield. Three more were simply smashing the rainbow shimmer with their fists, squeezing into the corridor so that they could beat themselves bloody on it.

Pip felt a tap on his shoulder from Kraeme, and he released the Shield. The eleven attackers who'd forced themselves into the space fell forward into the Bauble Charm. There was a heavy thump to the air, so powerful that Pip felt his entire body shudder from the proximity of it, and the Charm triggered. An invisible wave of air expanded down the corridor with crushing force. In the narrow confines, all of its strength was concentrated. Most of their attackers were pulped against the stone walls, which themselves cracked and shifted under the pressure, while the rest were forced back to the entrance of the Tower, where the north and south corridors split off from each other.

There was no time to rest; Kraeme had her own Baubles already cast, and they both moved forward a few steps, to give themselves a place to retreat if necessary. They could hear the low-pitched sound of the wailers in the clinic behind them, charged and ready, in case Pip and Kraeme fell and the seals were broken. Defense in depth.

The enemy surged forward, screaming and howling and cursing, some of them slipping on the blood and viscera that was thick on the floor. But Kraeme was with him, and they could handle this. Pip grinned, and drove them back, firing off rapid _Depulsos_. Easy to cast, and it gave Kraeme a chance to lace into the packed mob with a Severing Charm, surgically placed.

They'd keep up the teamwork until they had a chance to create another breathing space - a moment to move forward and push back against the attack. If they could force back these lunatics to the Receiving Room, they could use the first door-shield. It didn't matter if there was an army being sent in against them, not with that shield. They could lock it in place and wait for the rest of the DMLE to relieve them. Or even better - leave it just enough ajar that they could flood the Receiving Room with something called "halothane." Pip didn't know exactly how it worked, but he'd been told its name and a rough idea of what it did, and that was enough to transfigure it. They'd put everyone to sleep. And if that didn't work, if the madmen had presence of mind enough to counter such a simple attack, there were other things that could be done. They'd not only hold the clinic: they'd push these bloody bastards right out of the Tower.

Someone at the summit had betrayed them all, but they hadn't reckoned on Tally Pirrip's son.

There was someone new at the end of the corridor, not just another raver. A woman in black. She kicked a shrieking man out of her way as she stepped into sight. She was calling something, but it couldn't be heard over the tumult. The woman had a shield up, and it turned aside Pip's first few sallies. Through unspoken agreement, he turned to fighting the lunatics, instead, driving them back with a flurry of curses delivered with such speed that he felt his magic strain. Kraeme engaged the woman.

It was over in a moment, and Pip didn't get a chance to say anything. He only heard the words, clearly this time: "_Avada Kedavra!_" Kraeme fell to the ground beside him, lifeless and limp. The woman turned and stalked out of sight, away from the north corridor. She was going elsewhere.

Pip was alone.

The madmen howled and attacked.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

It was Moody's plan, at its heart.

"_A well-designed security system must plan for the harmless, the foolish, the stupid, and the insane… and yet still defeat your most clever enemy. Herpo the Foul, creator of the Horcrux spell and one-time master of Greece, is said to have put it this way: 'Your trap must be a windmill, engaging the intruder with each new blade and forcing them to react.' Not that it did him much good, since he tangled with one auror too many in the sixteenth century. There's a lesson, there, too: don't brag in public."_

The south corridor led to many of the smaller research stations and to the meeting room. Past those, there was Material Methods and the Survey Station and all of their incredibly valuable projects - sfaironautical equipment, new weapons, and the lot. Plus the Extension Establishment was in the rear, and at the moment it was filled with a crowd of worthies and valuable hostages.

It was possible to access all of those from the north corridor, by going through the general ward and discharge ward of the clinic, but the clinic was heavily defended. Goblin silver and intricate seals, the best that could be devised, had been set in place to seal it off in case of attack. This was both to guard any patients _and_ out of the assumption that many attacks might originate from within the clinic.

The south corridor, on the other hand, was not designed to seal itself away and wait for help. It was designed to disable or kill any attacker who managed to get that far.

Draco had reacted with surprise and alarm when the abacuses began to clatter their alarm, and even Harry - who had been expecting this for days - jumped a little. He sprang to his feet.

"This is it. This has to be it," he said. "She's here. She's brought it,"

Harry had been dropping hints in a subtle way for a long while, but had recently dropped the final plum before the press… and had made sure it was published. The artifact that he needed. The artifact that humanity needed. The artifact that was hidden beyond the reach of every divination he'd been able to discover in recent years. The artifact that Voldemort had woven into his Horcrux network. The artifact to which his chief lieutenant must have access.

_Bellatrix Black. You have some part of the lore and power he gained as the Heir of Slytherin, evading the Interdict of Merlin, and you have things that I need. But all you need - all you could ever need - is Tom Morfin Riddle. And you know that we have him._

It must have seemed inconceivable to her - that Voldemort could be held prisoner by a stripling like Harry, and that the Tower could be impenetrable to every attempt to magical intrusion or scrying. It should have been impossible for Harry to do either, even with the assistance of the world's mightiest wizards. And yet it was true. Interdicted knowledge and dark rituals wouldn't help her. Voldemort was beyond her reach.

Lesath had been the clue - or reminder, perhaps, that there was an outside threat that they could never hope to control. A fallback plan for Voldemort, who would have had plans within plans within plans.

Poor, poor Lesath.What had he been doing, these seven years? What information had been stripped from him by his mad mother? Had he been forced to help her search for her Dark Lord? Did he still bear his misguided allegiance to Harry? Had he suffered?

"_The Resurrection Stone, which could pierce any world_," he had mentioned at the launch of the _Monroe._ A small, careless mistake among other such small, careless mistakes.

_I have barriers you cannot break, Bellatrix. I hold Voldemort within them, your love and lord, Bellatrix. Come to me, Bellatrix. Bring me the Spirit Stone. And bring me yourself, and I will give you rest._

Harry turned to Hermione. "We need the Resurrection Stone. She will have it with her. She _must_ have it with her."

"You should go to the Extension Establishment," she replied, getting to her feet. "It will be safe. The Brahmins and the Siberians - the Rakshasa - are both there, along with the Returned. Send Tonks here."

Harry shook his head. "I need to be here."

"Don't you _have_ to go… no, the Vow won't make you… hell, this is not the time to argue," said Hermione, gritting her teeth. "Like a play, indeed," she muttered, as she turned to Draco. "He's being an idiot. Go get Tonks and Hyori, and keep an eye on all those fancy people. And make sure no one over-reacts."

Draco walked to the table and picked up his cane. "Use your mirrors and tell that American to sort everyone out. He can get on a stepladder, he'll do just fine. I'm not going anywhere."

"This is _embarrassing_ and you're both idiots," said Hermione, snatching her bubbler out of her robes.

The resonator in one corner began vibrating. It was a fairly simple device - a low-tech, low-magic way to communicate to the whole Tower in an emergency. The Protean Charm made any change to the source item occur in all linked items. This included vibration, such as the vibrations that produced sound. "Time-turners are compromised," warbled the resonator, erring on the side of loudness instead of clarity. The mechanics had been difficult to work out. "Unknown magics from attackers. Protocol Apple. We are under attack and the Terminus is down. Protocol Apple. Protocol Apple. Protocol Apple."

Time-turners were compromised? But the enchantment to block time-turning took months to set in place… was this some of Voldemort's interdicted lore, or…?

Harry touched his wand to the table, and thin seams appeared on its surface. He pulled up on one, and a mirror slid up and out of a recess. It showed the north corridor - a view from the clinic door. There were aurors there, and they were fighting. He couldn't make out the identity of the defenders from their backs, but he could see the attackers: screaming men in ragged clothes. Low skills, but there were dozens of them. Thankfully, the defenders seemed to be making short work of each one as they appeared, entangling and rending them apart with fire. There should be three aurors there, though… ah, and the missing one had probably tried to use a time-turner.

He opened a second display. The south corridor was similarly defended - two aurors fighting a holding action. They were standing at the corner where the corridor turned; behind them was one wall of the Vision Verge. Doors to other departments were all visible - Advancement Agency, Ypsilanti Yard, the Survey Station - although the attackers seemed to have no interest in any of them. They were charging down the hall, pell-mell.

He could hear Hermione on her bubbler, calling in Tonks and Hyori, putting Reg in charge, asking if everything was okay. But his attention was on the image in front of him. He wished a view of the Receiving Room was possible. How many were dead there, already?

One of the aurors in the south corridor conjured strong blasts of wind, forcing back their attackers for a moment, while the other knelt and touched his wand to the floor. The auror whispered the command word, and the traps engaged.

With a series of tiny explosions, so quick they sounded simultaneous, pitons blew out of the walls as pneumatic pressure was released. Fifty metallic projectiles erupted from one wall into the opposing one, burying themselves into the stone at odd angles. Only one enemy was struck by the attack: a hooting man with long hair and half his face raked with red scars fell to the ground, screaming, as a metal bolt passed through his shoulder. The others only paused for a half-second, then leapt to the attack, screaming derision and madness.

The one in the lead whipped his wand forward, shouting a curse, but his voice broke into an inchoate scream. He staggered to the side as blood began pouring from his chest, and an invisible blade cut further into his flesh, sectioning out a wedge of meat and bone. He fell backwards, gurgling, and a second carbon nanotube bisected him. He died with bared teeth.

The other madmen screamed and twitched as they met the edges of invisible razors, cutting themselves as they tried to move forward or duck or jump. They fell all to pieces.

New attackers appeared at the end of the hall, and the aurors brandished their wands, leveling them over the gore-strewn ruin. Beads of blood and gobbets of flesh were suspended in the air, but they went unnoticed, and the shrieking men, covered with scars, gave themselves terrible wounds on the first few razor-wires. The aurors assisted with the confusion, one of them putting up wards while the other - it was Auror Kwannon, Harry could see now - laid waste with Cutting Curses.

The illusion didn't last long. One of the scarred men obliterated his neighbor with a wash of fire, and then snarled something and jabbed a finger at the corridor. Kwannon took him down during the pause, lashing him with wide wounds that brought the attacker to his knees, but the damage was done. Five other attackers - as many as could wield their wands abreast in the corridor - began to fire curses at the walls and aurors from afar. Those behind them howled and gibbered, climbing on each other to gain a narrow window through which to fling a curse at Kwannon and the other auror.

The pitons were easy to break free from the wall, and most of the attackers had no trouble blowing apart the anchoring on one side or another with _Deprimo_ or other blasting curses. They suffered Kwannon's attacks in the meantime, falling wounded or dead until the floor at their end of the corridor was slippery with blood and viscera. She was using more gusts of air, as well, to knock them off-balance.

Despite this, they still had the weight of seemingly unlimited numbers. More than a hundred attackers had already poured into the north and south corridors, forcing their way through the golden entrance of the Tower. There were simply too many, and they managed to disable a dozen of the razor-wires before the gas reached them.

Individually, the tanks of cyanogen chloride were not very large. When Moody and two unnamed and grim-faced aurors had installed them within the walls, behind the firing nozzles of the razor-wire pitons, they'd wanted to work with small quantities. The gas caused choking, a burning sensation on any affected skin, blindness, and - quite rapidly - death. It didn't need to be inhaled: any contact with the skin would burn and bite and sicken. Even with transfiguration protocols in place, they'd been worried about an accident going out of control. Harry hadn't been able to be within sight, much less close enough to help… it was just _that _dangerous.

Immediately, the madmen began choking and spluttering, clutching their faces. All of their exposed skin was probably being affected, but mucous membranes were the most sensitive.

Harry leaned forward, squinting at the image. Was Bellatrix in that mess of thrashing and howling bodies? He glanced over at the other image. No, there she was, laughing and staring with wide eyes down the north corridor at the clinic. She must have gathered at least a little information about the Tower - she must know there was nothing for her down that path. She had no reason to -

He shut his eyes, in spite of himself, as Bellatrix whipped her wand forward and sent a bolt of green coruscating down the corridor. It struck Kraeme, and she fell to the floor. And then she was gone, moving towards the south corridor. Heading for him.

Harry glanced over his shoulder to see Tonks and Hyori arrive at the meeting room. Tonks was just beginning to make the change to Harry's appearance. She looked pale, but determined. Hyori looked as blankly belligerent as usual, her wand ready in her hand. Hermione was in a hushed conversation with them both - telling them about all the traps, including the final one. No danger there: they were both battle-hardened and trustworthy.

"Bellatrix Black and something like two hundred werewolves are attacking," Harry called over to them. His voice was calm. He _felt_ calm, against all reason.

"Hide," commanded Hyori, scowling at him and pointing a finger at the door. Harry just shook his head.

Hermione was digging in the pouch at her waist. "Harry, it's irresponsible for you to stay here. Go to the Establishment with Draco, organize that line of defense."

"I need to be able to speak to her," Harry said. "It is _astoundingly _important that I speak to her." He deliberately stopped his next words, which were going to be "if she even makes it this far." _Of course_ she was going to make it this far. And she probably had tricks he didn't know about, and plans of her own, and everything else. Was it really so important that he confront her - that he look her in the eye and speak to her?

_Don't worry, my trusted ally, there's no way that the enemy and their ill-equipped army will manage to penetrate to the center of my fortress, past all of my traps. I won't deny myself the pleasure of watching their demise. And if they do make it this far, then I want to look them in the eye when I defeat them with some of the most powerful objects in the universe that surely will never leave my control and threaten all of mankind._

"Years of planning with Alastor, and you're going to tell me that you think it's sufficiently pessimistic to think pneumatic tubing is going to do the trick, here?" said Hermione, openly scornful.

"I'm stupid," agreed Harry, and started for the door.

_Is this cowardice?_

"Just…" he started, but he couldn't think of anything good to say. He couldn't think of anything that had enough weight - that sounded right.

"Harry, go. Be good," Hermione said. She was pulling on her golden gauntlet, and the Cloak of Invisibility was draped over her arm.

Harry set up a bubbler before he went, setting it on a conjured stool in a corner with a clear view. Then he left the room, walking with hurried steps out through the rear door, heading to the Extension Establishment.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

"Out of the way, little men," snapped Bellatrix Black, as she approached the corridor. But she saw that very many of them were unable to obey, thrashing and choking. "_Bullesco_," she cast, and a bubble swelled from one nostril until it encompassed her head. She felt light-headed, and there was a mad dash to her pulse.

_Here here here here my Lord, I'm here. I'm here for you for you for you for you for you for you for you_

And she stopped her thoughts before they went too far, before she started laughing again. Time to fight time to kill time to murder. Despite herself, she giggled at that, a bit. A bit. Bits and bits. Bits and bobs and blobs. _For you for you for you for you_, she chanted in her head, more calmly.

Her skin was burning. Transfiguration attack, airborne acid.

"_You are too slow, Bella, and now you are dead. Do you feel that? _Listen to me_, do you feel that? That's your brain dying because you can't breathe, Bella. I will save you, because I love you, but it is important that you remember this. Remember how it feels. Remember what to do. Listen to me, and do as I say. _Look at me, Bella_. Listen to me and do as I say. You will learn how to fight. You will learn how to live."_

She sent a wave of fire down the corridor, roiling and white-hot, feeding and growing on the air itself. Two dozen men burned and died. Her men, her little men. Little wolves. Pups. Puppies. She couldn't smell the air, but she knew what it must smell like. Fire in the air smelled rich and nutty and scorched.

Aurors at the end of the corridor. More aurors. More dollies.

Curses. Moving slowly, in slow motion. Fighting fighting fighting. Obvious attack and supporting attack - direct and tricky, jam and butter. Twirl to the side and bring up a shield, use Bartolomeo's Reckoning, easy to cast while moving, redirect the tricky attack and avoid the direct. Move with grace and speed and death. Silly dollies.

"_Do you see this? You had two of these, and now you only have one. You're slow, Bella. My dear, dear Bella. Dry your tears. Do you wish to be slow? You will be in pain, or perhaps even dead. I would be so sad if you were dead. The world would be less beautiful. Less perfect. For you are a thing of perfection, Bella. But what are we to do? We can put this eye back, but will you still be slow? No, you won't. You're a good girl. You will have something to show Dumbledore."_

Other attacks moving in, but they're slow, and easy to break out of their rhythm. That was the key to good music - playing with life, rather than plodding along to ¾ time like a fool. She danced to the side and whipped her wand down, sending the Bloodfoot Curse at one of the aurors. Not to hit her, although that would suit Bellatrix fine, but because it was a big red curse that left her wand in the Ochs. She flicked off two quick Bertram Bolts in the Bloodfoot's wake, but knew a counter-attack must already be on the way, and brought her wand down for another Bartolomeo. _Ha! be be be be be here be here be here I'm here I'm here_

Unsuccessful, both aurors alive, but that was all right. Bellatrix curved her mind in the right shape and clutched with her will at the space before her, wrapping specific thoughts like gloved fingers into the world and dragged them downward. A burden of hard air curved over her, slowing an incoming red curse - a stunner a stunner dollies using stunners! - and then laughed another spell of fire downrange at the aurors. The flames licked and slid down the corridor. Someone underfoot was screaming and screaming. There were things hanging in the air, little black bits, what was that? Traps! Muggle traps! Stupid rat Muggles with little rat brains. Won't stop Bella. Not from getting to Him.

"_If you don't want it, then why do you even try? I can't even look at you. You are some… creature. A pathetic, nasty little creature. You're disgusting. It's your soul, that's what's so vile. Thick and clogged… like a stopped-up drain. But you don't even know what that is, do you, nastiness? Why do you do this to me? Why won't you be pure for me?"_

"_Avada Kedavra_," she sang, and sent a green bolt down the corridor. Her target - the female one - was off-balance and had her wand down from deflecting the fire. Elemental defense required broad gestures. She couldn't hope to react in time. Bella shrieked out laughter as the dolly died.

The other one said nothing, but took the opportunity afforded by her companion's death to whip curse after curse at Bellatrix, casting so quickly that he would have nothing left when it was over. Burning himself out, in the hopes that he might get lucky. _Sacrifice. Silly sacrifice. Stupid silly sacrifice no b is better. B for better._

She threw herself to the side and then again and then again, ducked and twirled and shielded, and never stopped laughing.

"_Incarcerous. Silencio. Aggragify_," she cast, a solid string of spells delivered with such fluid beauty and precision that she _knew just knew_ He would be proud of her. The auror smashed into the wall behind: wrapped with cords, silenced, and bewitched.

"Silly," Bellatrix said, slightly out of breath. "Not even dying with dignity like your friend. Just dead and failed, little dolly." She giggled, and raised her wand. Muggle traps. Muggle traps. Little rat Muggle traps.

The Sigil of Cold Earth, traced in red fire. The ancient name of a bitter creature, spoken six times. Was she calling some part of that creature, or was there only one in the world? One beautiful bitter beast, feeding on her sacrifice - she willed the sacrifice, felt the bite of burning in her breast - one bitter burning beast. _ b_.

"Az-reth. Az-reth. Az-reth. Az-reth. Az-reth. Az-reth," Bellatrix crooned. And scarlet flames reached out from the rune, stretching indolently, almost casually, as they smoothed into the shape of limbs. It was red all shot through with black, as though the flames had some terrible leprosy.

A chimera of hellish flame padded gently out of the rune and came to stand on the smoking stone before Bellatrix. A leonine head, flame-flickering mane with black-edged teeth. A broken-necked goat's head sprouting from the body, lolling back and forth and smiling a terrible smile. A snake of scarlet, whipping around and snapping at the air with small puffs of heat.

"_Sweet Bella. Come here. You love me, don't you, Bella? You must do something for me. It needs to be done. It may be unpleasant. But you will do it. So go. Go and be good."_


	37. Levels

At some point in the past few minutes, all of Hermione's confusion and anxiety and sadness had been swept away, leaving only the cold and clear consideration of tactics.

_I need to stop Bellatrix, protect Harry and Draco and a roomful of dignitaries to preserve this new peace, and get the Resurrection Stone. And to save any aurors that I can still rescue._

_I can directly command the aurors and my Returned, and probably also get the Boston Brahmins and the Siberian Rakshasa, if necessary._

_Bellatrix is, without question, here for Voldemort. Harry said that she didn't seem capable of caring about anything else - she might have plans and secondary goals on his behalf, but her purpose is clear. She'll want Harry, since she'll rightly assume he knows where Voldemort is kept. She is one of the most fearsome witches of her generation and has access to spells and power we don't have, but she also spent years in Azkaban and has been forced to resort to a single desperate attack with a massed army of psychotic, enslaved werewolves._

_No, that doesn't make any sense. She wouldn't risk herself in an attack like this without some sort of trump card - some way to defeat all the massed forces she knows are present here. Some way to defeat me. That would mean risking Voldemort's last chance at freedom, and if she were unhinged enough to do that, then she wouldn't have waited this long and prepared this much. She has some additional force or power at her command… even beyond Fiendfyre._

Plans danced in her mind, considered in their permutations and in their costs. No time for optimal planning or more than one level of preparation - they needed direct response, and they needed it before Bellatrix managed to pass through the trapped south corridor.

_Massed attack with Returned… no, narrow constraints make us all vulnerable to any unknown threat or renewed werewolf attack. Lure into open room and trap… no, would sacrifice too much ground and put her too close to assets._

_Direct attack, flank her and cut off any reinforcements, set up a second layer of defense and trust to Harry for a third layer. She'll go for him - assume he knows where Voldemort is kept._

There, yes, that was it. No time to second-guess. She committed.

"Here's the plan," said Hermione, throwing the Cloak of Invisibility to Hyori. "Take this and go around the back, to the rear of the clinic. Have them let you through - you know the sequences? - so you can flank Bellatrix. Stop at the Establishment on the way and tell Simon and Esther to come here to guard 'Harry.' The Americans and Siberians should stay with the real Harry and prepare to swarm Bellatrix if she makes it that far… he should make a false Voldemort, just in case." Her last words were as much for the benefit of Harry's bubbler in the corner as Hyori.

Hyori caught the Cloak and sprinted from the room without another word, her lips pursed.

Tonks, who was lifting the meeting room table onto its side for a barricade, glanced over at Hermione. He had already fashioned himself into a perfect simulacrum of Harry, and had torn the collar of his robes to make them look more masculine. "And you're going to go try to duel my dear Auntie Black, are you?"

"Yes, in order to protect your dear cousin Draco and everyone else," said Hermione, working her fingers in her gauntlet and heading to the other door.

"I'm Harry's distant cousin, too, actually, along with half that room of muckity-mucks," said Tonks, cheerily. "All our families have been snogging each other for a thousand years."

"A proud legacy," said Hermione, smiling. She drew her wand.

"Don't die, mudblood!" called Tonks, after her.

"You either, blood traitor," replied Hermione, and then she was through the door and heading to the south corridor, breaking into a run.

She could already see the auror as she rounded into the corridor. He was standing at the corner with the south corridor, putting up runes. Probably runes of balance, out of the hopes that it would damage Bellatrix's Fiendfyre chimera. He didn't run.

_A brave man_, she thought, and pushed into a flat-out run, arms pumping. _Balance probably won't be enough to save his own life, but it's most likely to slow her down. He's willing to die to buy us a few more minutes._

She raised her wand, holding it level as she ran, and then flicked it twice to the left - "_Lagann!" -_ and then with a sharp rising jerk towards herself - "_Impedimenta!_" The auror's location wards broke under her first spell, and he was jerked off his feet with the second, sliding towards her, legs flailing. She leapt as she reached him, one powerful stride carrying her ten meters forward and over him. Hermione had the briefest of glimpses of a look of absolute awe on the man's face - Auror Salamander, she recognized him - and then he was past her. She lowered her body into a lunge and turned herself, and her feet skidded over the stone. She came to a neat stop at the corner at the end of the south corridor, over the body of the fallen auror. Everything was red and scarlet. There was Fiendfyre.

And there was Bellatrix Black.

It was hard to see her past the chimera, which was lazily pushing at the stone of the floor, kneading it with lion's paws as it vitrified and bubbled. But she was there. A tall woman with a strong jawline, she was dressed in black leather leggings and a ragged gray tunic, belted at the waist. One of her arms was black and misshapen: an enchanted prosthetic. Bellatrix had a wide smile on her face.

"Ten green bottles, standing on the wall," she sang, loudly. Her voice was high-pitched - too young for her age. She tilted her head, and stared at Hermione down the length of the corridor. Dozens of carbon nanotubes blocked her path… but they wouldn't withstand an instant of Fiendfyre.

"Bellatrix Black!" shouted Hermione. "My name is Hermione Granger! I know you're here for your Dark Lord… let us give you what you want!" She glanced down at the body of the auror, and leaned over to grasp it with one hand and give it a powerful shove away from her. The fallen auror tumbled end-over-end towards the meeting room.

"Ten green bottles, standing on the wall," repeated the other witch, and bubbled with a moment of insane laughter.

"Can you hear me? Can you understand me?" shouted Hermione. She tensed her fingers on her wand, and flexed her other hand within her gauntlet.

"And if one green bottle should happen to fall..." said Bellatrix, and raised her free hand. She gestured, and her Fiendfyre chimera jerked upright and lurched forward. The scabrous black lines channeling through the thick flames pulsed, and the broken-necked goat's head riding atop the nightmare's back lolled to one side.

"Bellatrix!"

"There'll be nine green bottles, standing on the wall!" shrieked Bellatrix and waved her hand again. The chimera leapt into the air and blazed forward, flaring bright with hellish flame. It surged towards Hermione, and it was so hot that it was destroying the nanotubes before it even touched them - she could hear the rapid staccato clicks as they broke. The chimera flared and crackled and melted the surface of the corridor into glass as it surged towards Hermione, and nothing stood in its way.

And she had a moment, then, to remember.

_Pain. Heat. A sweet stink in her nostrils. Her hair crackling as it burned. No knowledge of her body, which had gone far away - only pain and panic. Somehow she'd lost track of herself, even though she knew on some level that she was thrashing and screaming and there was no Granville oh god Granville was gone. But no, that level of knowledge was going away. The world was going away. She was fading burning dying. There was one level, and it was blackness._

Hermione remembered, and as time separated into a series of instants, she felt her stomach clench with fear. She felt herself ready to scream. She felt the blackness, waiting.

But in the next instant all of that was gone, and she was brandishing her wand and shouting her defiance, stamping her heels into the stone beneath her until it cracked.

And in the next instant Hermione could feel the _smile on her face_ as the chimera flared even brighter - red and crimson, everything was dyed red and crimson - and she heard the loud crack of seals coming loose.

Then the chimera was jerked violently to the right and down, spinning helplessly. Thousands of pounds of air pulled it along, sucking with hurricane force at its fire-formed body. Its snake-tail whipped around and hissed angrily, only to be caught up by a different force and wrenched in another direction. Hermione's shout was lost in the roar of wind, and she felt herself lifting off of her feet. She buried her gauntlet into the wall with an extravagant punch, pushed down on her embedded heels, and held her ground.

Buried in the walls were forty extended spaces, linked into a system. They were as large as possible, and they were filled with nothing… not even air.

The chimera had time enough to buck twice in the air, its lion's body flexing, and then it splashed into the wall of the corridor with a wash of mad-red flame. Three of the vacuum chambers, exposed by the Fiendfyre flames that had melted into the walls, sucked air by the gallons. They exerted over a ton of force on the corridor, expressed in a hurricane of sucking wind. The chimera shockingly managed to hold itself away from them for a moment, straining to pull away with whatever magical force that gave it motion. Hermione could see the lion of black and red flame roar without sound... and then the chimera was torn apart, rent into scraps of scarlet and ribbons of red, spread out and scattered and dissipated.

According to legend, Fiendfyre could not be stopped or killed or contained. The ritual was the incarnation of a creature of flame and hatred, and nothing could stem its destruction.

That hypothesis, however, hadn't held up under testing.

The wind died in a few moments, as ball valves were sucked into place. Hermione pulled her gauntlet free from the wall with a rattle of stones, and glanced to her right. Auror Salamander had been pulled back towards her, but was already back on his feet, running towards the meeting room.

Bellatrix was also standing up. Behind her, four long gouges in the stone showed where she'd held on - she must have dug her own new hand into the wall. Something of which to take note: that device probably had other powers, as well, if she'd gotten it from some hidden hoard.

"_Stupefy_," cast Hermione, and threw herself low and to the side. Bellatrix's own silent curse came in reply a moment later, a rippling wave of purple crystal that swept over Hermione's head. Hermione kicked herself back to her feet with a nimble motion, whipping her wand around and raising a rapid and disposable Roger's Shield. The multicoloured disc of light unfolded from a single bright line just in time to intercept a second wave of crystal shards. Translucent pieces of the shattered projectiles scattered everywhere, and Hermione could feel them patter into her hair.

_Classically trained duelist, but acts without the rhythm of convention. Voldemort's work. She'll have something up her sleeve that I can't counter - some wardbreaker or elemental conjuration. And even beyond that… she's just better than me. I need to get in close and press my own advantages._

A thick wash of fog rolled forward from Bellatrix, but Hermione interrupted with a rapid-fire burst of minor hexes, fired from around the edge of her shield. _That fog's slow and flashy, that's a trap_. Without time for another thought, Hermione cooled her mind into a receptive calm and extended her will, thrusting forth the thought of blue November and the smell of burning leaves. A ward of prisms burst into existence, blocking the corridor from top to bottom, and Bellatrix's hidden curse, the Slow Blade of Unusually Specific Destruction, which had been cruising sedately but invisibly forward, burst like a soap bubble.

_I need to-_

But the thought was interrupted as both the prisms and Roger's Shield exploded towards her, shattered by a blazing beam of white-hot light. Hermione felt a hot wave of pain as the energy clipped her right shoulder, and then she was tumbling backwards from the impact. _So fast, _she thought, but there was _no time_ and she rolled to one side and thrust out her hand, pushing herself upright with a powerful motion just in time to avoid a sticky gobbet of grey liquid, which landed in a pulsing sphere on the stone and exploded into a fine mist.

Hermione recognized the spell and held her breath, but there was just no time to prepare a counter-attack. She could already see a white glow building in intensity at the other end of the corridor, and could only swirl her wand and raise it to Vom Tag, pulling an eruption of grey stone up from the floor. The beam of light broke against the stone with a sound like shattering glass - _the pattern, I see it_ \- and Hermione threw herself to the side again, smashing into the side of the corridor, as a Killing Curse passed through the space in which she'd just been standing.

Then Hermione seized her advantage while she could. She smashed her clenched and gauntleted hand into her shield of stone, bursting through it with a golden blow, and barked, "AquaCem!"

Sticky foam rushed out of the gauntlet, seething and swelling as it flooded down the hallway towards Bellatrix. Hermione couldn't see it, thanks to the stone that protected her from any backflow, but she could hear the sizzle of spells, muffled by a corridor crammed with foam.

She had a moment. Bellatrix would be delayed for at least a short time. Time enough for Hermione to prepare, and time enough for Hyori to get in position. She didn't dare hope that she'd just ended the fight; even if she'd managed to surprise the other witch and actually catch her in the foam, there were any number of ways Bellatrix could escape.

"_Ventus_," she cast, clearing away the mist. She took a deep breath, and considered her options.

_I should have kept the Cloak, and had Hyori take Simon and Esther with her_, she thought. She'd been wary of sending anyone without perfect concealment around to the north corridor, since more werewolves might have been on the way. _But I made my decision, and it's done. Hindsight bias be damned._

_So how do I get in close? _She took a quick inventory, trying to think of some way to get to the end of the corridor before Bellatrix could react. Her broom was too slow and vulnerable. Explosives? No, that was silly and impractical, even if it was theoretically possible. She couldn't bubble and have the Anti-Disapparation wards taken down (even if that was something they could easily so), for obvious reasons.

The foam hissed, and some of its stiff grey bubbles poured through the hole she'd left in the stone shield in front of her. Hermione could hear a crackling sound, growing louder by the second. She had another foam charger, should she…

_Oh. Wait, no, that's crazy._

But she couldn't think of _why_ it wouldn't work, and she didn't have anything better, and this needed to end before more people got hurt. So there it was.

Hermione turned and smashed her gauntleted fist into the stone behind her. She twisted her hand violently, and a small shower of broken rock came loose. Pulling the gauntlet free from her hand, she pushed hard on the underside of one knuckle. The spent foam charger came loose, and she pocketed it. She replaced it with a spare wind charger from her pouch, locking it into place next to an identical one. Then she shoved the gauntlet into the hole she'd made, backwards. It faced the opposite end of the south corridor, where Bellatrix was still dealing with the foam.

The sound of crackling had very nearly reached Hermione, and the air was almost unbreathable with an acrid smell. There was some sort of chemical reaction - had Bellatrix set the foam on fire, somehow?

The answer came in seconds, as Hermione's shield of stone began to sizzle. The top melted at the same time that holes appeared along the surface, and Hermione could see the thick yellow mist that was eating away at the rock. She'd changed the foam into some sort of airborne acid.

_How oddly helpful._

"_Bullesco_," cast Hermione, and the Bubblehead Charm swelled up and around her head. _Here goes… well, something. _She put her back to the gauntlet, facing the end of the corridor and Bellatrix squarely. Then she raised her wand."_Ventus! Ventus! _Kavo!"

Two gusts of wind swept the airborne acid back at Bellatrix. It was the obvious counter-attack, meaning it was an obvious trap - the dull yellow glow of two Bertram Bolts whipped from out of the swirling acid, which had obscured their passage.

But Hermione had also triggered the two wind chargers in her gauntlet. Twin gales of compressed air, released in a moment from their extended space, swept her up and down the corridor, over the curses, bouncing painfully against the ceiling and turning in an awkward tumble. She lost sight of Bellatrix as she spun, but saw the yellow fog of acid vanish in a glimmer of light - the Obliteration Charm.

Hermione hit Bellatrix's shields with one tense leg. Her ankle twisted to the side violently with the impact and she crashed to the ground, arms akimbo and head cracking into the stone sharply. Bellatrix's eyes were wide with shock and anger and crazed delight. Her false arm held her wand delicately between three fingers, still pointed forward. She brought it down to point at Hermione. "_Avada-"_

Hermione lashed out with her uninjured foot, sharply striking Bellatrix's wooden arm. The blow would have broken any human arm, but the smooth-grained wooden arm - oddly delicate in appearance, all shifting layers, an intricate mesh of components - was only knocked away.

"Silly stupid scum," hissed Bellatrix, hopping backwards and out of reach.

Hermione could see the other witch's eyes clearly, in this instant as she scrambled to her feet. They had a burning intensity to them: the fever brightness of madness. But she saw more than that, and her heart ached as she recognized that there was a hollowness behind her gaze. A hungry distance that lay somewhere in those crazed dark eyes.

_You never Returned, even when you left Azkaban. You carry your Azkaban with you._

It was a moment of recognition. A moment of hesitation.

Bellatrix's wand danced in a complicated swivel and bob, and she tapped it on her chest. "_Amandher Penkue!"_

The air shuddered with a pulse of magical power. Hermione felt it in her bones. One of Bellatrix's eyes popped wetly, exploding from the socket into a small burst of black dust.

_A sacrifice. An old spell._

"Here I am," said Bellatrix Black.

"Here I am here I am," said a second Bellatrix Black.

"Here I am here I am here I am," said a third Bellatrix Black.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

Pip could barely stand. He was very near _toverislot_, and he could feel his will ache with overexertion. He would pass out soon - should have passed out a while ago, actually.

Despite knowing this, somewhere in the back of his mind, he didn't stop. He couldn't stop. Pip crushed the crowded hall with attack after attack. His back against the clinic door, he fought screaming madmen. He broke their bodies and rent their flesh, casting spell after spell, chaining together one effect after another. He fought without stopping, without resting, without thinking.

Pip fought until there was no one left to fight.

The hallway was a ruin of gore and wrecked humanity. Broken or abandoned wands were strewn in and around the smoking remains of their owners. Someone was wetly wheezing, trying to curse or scream even as they drowned in their own blood. Pip leaned on the wall, his vision swimming - but wand at the ready.

The door to the clinic clanked loudly, and swung open behind him. Pip turned, wearily, to see that witch from the Returned - the angry-looking Korean one. Her wand was out, but she appeared to be missing her other arm. _No, an invisibility cloak. Bugger, I _am_ tired._ She stared at him for a moment, narrowing her eyes with scrutiny.

"Hullo," he said.

"Come," she replied, handing him a phial. The label read, "PEPPER-UP POTION." Then she pushed past him, breaking into a run, throwing the cloak over her shoulders.

_I shouldn't drink this_, Pip thought, as he swallowed the potion. He felt it burn down into his stomach, boiling in his guts. Thick heat spread throughout his limbs, and his ears burned.

_I'm too tired… I'll just sit down here and take a rest. Forget the lockdown protocol, let the clinic aurors go fight, _Pip thought, as he raced down the corridor after the vanishing Returned, slipping on blood.

_Mum would want me to let someone else take their turn… bollocks to this, I'm going to go have a nap_, Pip thought, as he began to raise his wards for what felt like the thousandth time. New strength was rising in him, but it felt artificial and thin - the false energy of a strong cup of tea in the wee hours of a long watch.

He could hear Bellatrix's voice as they neared the junction of the north and south corridors. She was chanting something, but there was some strange effect - it sounded like a chorus. Like there were-

Three of the bloody crazy bints. All fighting Hermione Granger.

It was impossible. Everything about it was impossible. It was impossible that Bellatrix had duplicated herself somehow - it wasn't even an illusion, they were all doing different things! - since there had never been any magic like that, not that he'd ever heard. It was impossible that anyone could cast so many curses - so many Killing Curses! - with such speed and viciousness. He'd heard stories, but to see it…

And it was impossible that the Goddess was _still alive._

But she was. She ducked and threw up shields and cast curses and lashed out with her fists and feet. Killing Curses streamed past her, but she slipped gracefully among them, pausing only to rip away wards from her foes or attack them. She moved faster than anyone could move. She was dancing between the raindrops.

"_Lagann_! _Stupefy!_" Pip shouted, and immediately wished he'd kept quiet. His spell smashed through the shields of one of the Bellatrixen, but his stunner hit her wooden right arm and had no effect.

"Oh hell," Pip said, as that Bellatrix (Bellatrix #1? Bellatrix A? Bellatrix holyhellrunaway?) rounded on him, leaving her doubles to fight the Goddess. Like the other two, she was missing her right eye. A bloody socket wept crimson down her cheek.

"Silly dolly," hissed Bellatrix A. "It's time to-"

But her words were cut off suddenly, turning into a wet gurgle as a red slash appeared across her throat. Blood began to spurt from the wound, and Bellatrix A staggered backwards into the wall, clutching it with one hand as she tried to clamp her fingers over her throat with the other. Her wand dropped to the floor.

In unison, the two other Bellatrixes whirled. They spoke in one voice.

"_Avada Kedavra_."

Both curses flashed through the air and vanished into nothingness. There was the sound of someone collapsing to the ground.

"_Stupefy!"_ cast Pip again. The stunner missed, but it did force the two standing Bellatrixen to adapt and raise new shields, distracting them for a further precious instant. It gave the Goddess a moment to snatch a knife from a pouch at her waist. She renewed her attack, casting three Bertram Bolts in as many seconds and lunging at the nearest Bellatrix.

Her target whirled to bring up her artificial arm and wand. The Bellatrix deflected the Bolts with an instantaneous Roger's Shield, and continued the motion to intercept the knife with the enchanted wood of her forearm. It was a marvel of combat.

Something didn't go as the Bellatrix expected, though, since the knife punched right through the prosthetic. It was a small knife, and its silver tip only just breached the other side of the relic-arm, but it was something.

"_Lagann! Lagann! Lagann! Reducto! Reducto!" _Pip began casting, trying to capitalize on the momentum. He kept his distance and only tried to support the Goddess, because he could feel a vast lethargy welling up from his guts. The potion was wearing off. He didn't give up. He wouldn't give up.

"_Thank you for saving the Goddess and the whole Tower," breathed Cedric. He shook Pip's hand, and then held on. He didn't let go as he looked into Pip's eyes. "I… I don't know how to say this, but… I'd noticed you, before. When you were on duty. I noticed you in your auror's robes. Your eyes."_

Pip dodged to the side with a desperate effort, contorting his body to avoid three precise blasts of Hippo's Fire. "_Lagann!" _he cast. "_Depulso! Reducto! Glacius!_" He was slowing down, dimming, fading. Everything began to get darker, and it felt like he was fighting in knee-deep water. Water that was rapidly rising, and making him sluggish and dull. He pushed himself. He pushed himself beyond where he ever thought he could go.

_It felt odd to be sitting at the head table, next to Headmistress McGonagall. But they'd insisted. It was only proper for the new Head of Slytherin to take the place of honour. "I want you to know," said the Headmistress, with a softness in her Scottish voice that he'd never heard, "that Hogwarts owes you a debt it can never repay. The name of Slytherin has new meaning, thanks to you. Let them all be Silver Slytherins in your mold. Let them strive to live up to the name of Pirrip."_

Everything was slow. Too slow. A bolt of fire hit Pip in the leg. He felt the pain as though at a great distance. He couldn't bring up any more shields, couldn't manage any difficult curses. He cast stunners and disarms, and even that took so much effort that it felt like his soul was being scraped raw. "_Stupefy! Stupefy! Expelliarmus!_" Anything to make the Bellatrix react and fight him - to distract her - needed to distract her - needed to save the Goddess…

"_I'm so proud of you, Philip. Your dad would be so proud of you."_

Then he felt a curse hit him in the stomach. Too slow. Couldn't avoid it. Didn't feel like anything, though. The world tilted and rocked as he fell, crumpling to the ground. Couldn't feel his legs. Couldn't feel bloody anything. Everything sideways. Everything dim.

Pip could see the Bellatrix he'd been fighting turn around. She touched her wand to the one with the slashed throat. After a moment, the hand of the fallen Bellatrix twitched and clenched itself. It scrabbled around, looking for a missing wand.

The Goddess was putting up layered shields, trying to outpace the other Bellatrix, whose prosthetic hand seemed to be moving more slowly. They were getting smaller - the whole fight was getting smaller. Everything was shrinking, as though he were being drawn back into a tunnel. A dark tunnel.

Bellatrixen A and B joined their sister. Dull shapes, moving far away. A thick fog. The Goddess was fighting. But it wasn't… wasn't working… she couldn't…

Dimly, Pip watched as Bellatrix Black and her two duplicates cast the Killing Curse. They cast it in quick succession, and they cast it flawlessly. This time, Hermione Granger was too slow.

One of the Killing Curses hit her. Colors were dim, and Pip's mind was fading, but still he saw the green bolt strike her in the chest.

He saw the Goddess die.

Two of the Bellatrixen sprang forward, down the corridor and out of his sight. Pip watched them go with the distant thought that this was important… that this mattered… but he couldn't quite…

Almost as an afterthought, the last Bellatrix turned to him. He watched, dully. He tried to keep his eyes open. He felt for his wand with numb fingers. He needed… he had to…

"_Avada Kedevra."_

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

Harry had done everything he could. He entered the Extension Establishment with his most commanding air and had informed everyone that there had been a security breach. The defence had been easy to organize. Draco was there to publicly and cordially avow that the Honourable and Independents had no hand in the attack, and that the same honour which compelled their defiance of tyranny would compel them to defend innocent lives. Harry suspected that, even if Draco hadn't been there, he would have met little opposition. This was his place of power and his fortress, and those in attendance respected such things.

Politics were still a necessity, though, and having Draco with him helped. The Slytherin was able to make awkward requests with such beautiful elegance that they seemed like compliments. Per Aavik-Söderlundh-Ellingsen and the other incompetents were ushered off to the far corners, where they wouldn't be in the way. The process was considerably eased when Harry sent the Brahmins - a grizzled, enormous pack of battle-hardened witches and wizards - next door, to fetch some of the Mobile Marys and other extended spaces. Fully half of the gathered crowd was dispersed among them. Everyone who would be a liability, or who declined to risk themselves, was put out of the way in that manner, and there was room to maneuver and plan.

But then that was arranged, and he'd worked with Draco and Cedric to deploy the British aurors and the Brahmins and their Siberian counterparts and some of the Returned (Urg, Charlevoix, and Susie) in strategic positions, and everyone was weaving wards and shields that were (frankly) far better left to them. Harry stood where he was politely asked to stand by Buckeye Dave of the Brahmins.

And he had to watch the bubbler and wait.

Tonks-as-Harry made her own preparations with Simon and Esther in the meeting room. They laid magical traps and wards and shields. They made plans. Harry watched and listened to them.

He waited.

Draco stood nearby, talking quietly with his mother (who kept giving Harry hateful glares) and Gregory Goyle. Harry wished they could keep talking, openly, like before - even just about the situation, much less everything else that had happened over these past few years.

Harry thought about everything that could be lost today. He thought about Dumbledore's wise words about war and loss, seven years ago, in a room filled with monuments to the fallen.

"_I see that you still do not understand. I think you will not understand until the day that you - oh, Harry. So very long ago, when I was not much older than you are now, I learned the true face of violence, and its cost. To fill the air with deadly curses - for any reason - for any reason, Harry - it is an ill thing, and its nature is corrupted, as terrible as the darkest rituals. Violence, once begun, becomes like a Lethifold that strikes at any life near it. I... would spare you that lesson the way I learned it, Harry."_

Would Harry learn that lesson today? Would he learn that there were never enough levels to a plan - never enough layers of deception or preparation that could save everyone?

He'd rejected that principle, then and every other time he thought about it. Dumbledore had shown him the costs of war, and had challenged him: did Harry really think he was smart enough - that _anyone _could be smart enough or prepared enough or powerful enough - to fight a war without loss?

Dumbledore had tried to point out that violence was often unpredictable, and seldom neat. They spoke of history - Gandhi and Churchill and Grindelwald - and they spoke of slippery slopes. And still, all around them, had been the evidence of loss. Dumbledore had done everything he could to avoid war, and when it came, he had led the forces of goodness. He had been the most powerful wizard known to the world, and he had somehow discovered the Word of the First Enchanter and had listened to every prophecy held in Britain, and _still_ he had suffered grievous losses in the wars against Grindelwald and Dumbledore.

"I do not accept your answer, Headmaster," Harry had said at the time. It had been a childish refusal to engage in an argument on its merits, really. "You are willing to accept balances of power where the bad guys end up winning. I am not," he'd said.

"_Refusing to accept something does not change it. I wonder now if you are simply too young to understand this matter, Harry, despite your outward airs; only in children's fantasies can all battles be won, and not a single evil tolerated."_

Harry had hated the bullying at Hogwarts. He'd been willing to disrupt the school to stop it. If that had upset Lord Jugson, he'd been willing to arrange for Lord Jugson to be exiled. If that had upset Lord Malfoy and his whole Wizengamot contingent, he'd been willing to break Malfoy and every single one of them - or all of them at once, if need be.

For the sake of ending bullying, Harry had been willing to conquer the world.

Was that right?

Harry drew his wand.

It wasn't the Elder Wand. The Elder Wand was hidden in the Tower, guarded by a thousand traps. It would have been foolish to carry it: Harry was clever and creative, but no duelist. Any unguarded moment and he could be "defeated"... no, better to keep it safe and hidden until he had need of it.

This was Harry's wand. Eleven inches long. Holly. Phoenix core.

What would Fawkes say to him now?

Noise from the bubbler. Harry's attention snapped over to it. Charlevoix, standing to his left, stepped closer to watch.

They could see three versions of Bellatrix Black entering the meeting room. There was fighting - hard to make out from the bubbler's limited vantage point. Esther was casting curses, and so was "Harry." Simon was already down. He was just visible at the bottom of the bubbler's view. He wasn't moving.

Flashes of light. Some sort of trap triggered, and the picture on the bubbler was whited-out. When the view returned, Esther and one of the Bellatrixen were both out of sight. Either they were out of range of the bubbler's vision, or… something else. He could hear a sharp intake of breath from Charlevoix.

But now it was Tonks against two Bellatrix Blacks, and no one could have won that battle. Harry cringed as the two attacking witches disarmed "Harry."

One of the Bellatrixen moved, and her back blocked Harry's view of Tonks. The other one was pulling something from within her belt. They struggled with Tonks, who wouldn't cooperate, finally settling on _Incarcerous_ to bind him. They forced him to open his mouth, poured something in. A potion. Veritaserum. A _lot_ of Veritaserum, more than anyone could ever use on someone they wanted to keep alive and sane. Enough to wrest the truth from Mad-Eye Moody himself.

"I'm Nymphadora Tonks, I'm not Harry Potter! He's oh Merlin no no no he's back through that door, in the Extension Establishment with everyone else no no no Merlin I'm so sorry Harry I'm so sorry Hermi-"

"_Avada Kedavra_," said one of the two remaining Bellatrix Blacks. Harry closed his eyes, and felt bile rise in his throat.

He'd taunted Dumbledore. Hurt him on purpose. _ "And that's why I can destroy Dementors and you can't. Because I believe that the darkness can be broken."_

The two witches laughed - insane and hideous laughter - and vanished from his view.

Harry heard laboured breathing, and turned to see Charlevoix's shoulders heaving. Her cheeks were wet with tears.

"Fucking bitches," said Susie.

Buckeye Dave gave orders to the Brahmins. Марат gave whispered commands to the Rakshasa. Cedric gave direction to the aurors.

Harry waited.

He remembered what Dumbledore had written to him - the last word in that conversation, delivered after the good man's sacrifice.

_There can only be one piece whose value is beyond price._

_That piece is not the world, it is the world's peoples, wizard and Muggle alike, goblins and house-elves and all._

Harry lurched into motion. First a step forward, and then another. Then he knew what he was doing and knew it was what Fawkes would tell him to do.

He broke for the door.

Angry and dismayed shouts broke out from those important enough to object, but what could they do? Stun him? Who would dare stun Harry Potter-Evans-Verres and ruin his clever plan? Draco called out something in alarm, but Harry couldn't understand him. Wouldn't understand him.

He was out the door and into the hall.

Bellatrix Black was there. So was a second Bellatrix Black. They stood side-by-side, ten meters away. They stank of death and madness.

Harry skidded to a halt, almost falling forward, awkwardly. He kept his wand at his side, deliberately, but raised his other hand.

He snapped his fingers.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_Note: I'm sorry._

_The next chapter will be posted in two weeks. It will be titled "Walpurgisnacht."_


	38. Walpurgisnacht

_JUPITER: Je dirais donc: "Jeune homme, allez-vous-en! Que cherchez-vous ici? Vous voulez faire valoir vos droits? Eh! vous êtes ardent et fort, vous feriez un brave capitaine dans une armée bien batailleuse, vous avez mieux à faire qu'à régner sur une ville à demi morte, une charogne de ville tourmentée par les mouches. Les gens d'ici sont de grands pécheurs, mais voici qu'ils se sont engagés dans la voie du rachat. Laissez-les, jeune homme, laissez-les, respectez leur douloureuse enterprise, éloignez-vous sur la pointe des pieds. … Et que leur donnerez-vous en échange? Des digestions tranquilles, la paix morose des provinces et l'ennui, ah! l'ennui si quotidien du bonheur. Bon voyage, jeune homme, bon voyage; l'ordre d'une cité et l'ordre des âmes sont instables: si vous y touchez, vous provoquerez une catastrophe. _(Le regardent dans les yeux.) _ Une terrible catastrophe qui retombera sur vous._

_ZEUS: Well, I'd say something like this. "My lad, get you gone! What business have_

_you here? Do you wish to enforce your rights? Yes, you're brave and strong and spirited. I can_

_see you as a captain in an army of good fighters. You have better things to do than reigning over a dead-and-alive city, a carrion city plagued by flies. These people are great sinners but, as you see, they're working out their atonement. Let them be, young fellow, let them be; respect their sorrowful endeavor, and begone on tiptoe. ... What, moreover, could you give_

_them in exchange? Good digestions, the gray monotony of provincial life, and the boredom —_

_ah, the soul-destroying boredom — of long days of mild content. Go your way, my lad, go your_

_way. The repose of cities and men's souls hangs on a thread; tamper with it and you bring_

_disaster._ (Looking him in the eyes.) _A disaster which will recoil on you. _

_-_Les Mouches_, Jean-Paul Sartre_

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_April 30th, 1999_

_John Snow Center for Medicine and Tower School of Doubt (The Tower)_

_Now_

Harry snapped his fingers.

To his left, through the open door back into the Establishment, he could hear several people gasp at the gesture - those who knew the legend. But in front of him, the two iterations of Bellatrix Black only stared at him.

"What was that, little man? Another ultimate weapon?" asked the one on the left, her voice mocking. Her right eye was only a torn nugget of ruined red flesh, bloody on her cheek, but it didn't seem to bother her.

In spite of himself and in spite of everything, Harry felt a mad giggle rising. He fought it back.

"Yes," he said. "Yes, you could say that."

"The Empty Fort," the two witches said, almost in unison. An identical expression of contemptuous glee was spreading on each of their faces.

"Where is the Dark Lord?" asked the one on the right. They raised their wands again, pointing them at Harry.

"_Muffliato_," said Harry, for some semblance of privacy, "I cut off his hands and wiped his memory and turned him into a rock. But I was worried that wasn't enough after it almost went wrong, and so I ripped his mind out of his body and imprisoned it in a fungus that I keep inside of a fancy box." He paused. "Did you want the box? I can have it gift-wrapped, I suppose."

"Stalling billy dolly," said the one on the right, sneering. She cocked her head to the side.

"Twist a while and you'll tell a truer tale," said the other. Her tongue poked out of her mouth, pinkish and crude, and licked blood from her upper lip.

From the corner of his eye, Harry could see movement. He raised his left hand sharply, to signal whoever it was to stop.

"No, that's the truth, actually," he said, calmly. "But I will trade you an even better one, if you answer a question of mine." He had many, actually. _What is that duplication spell? Did Voldemort know it? It duplicated your arm - could it duplicate any artifact? Is the ritual sacrifice permanent, or can you heal that eye later?_

The Bellatrix on the right giggled. "No time, billy. Bumbling bungling billy. I'm heavy with the milk of your death." Then the levity vanished from her face, suddenly and completely, and her lips tightened. "Twist."

"_Crucio_," cast the other.

And there was pain.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_ORESTE: Il y a des hommes qui naissent engagés: ils n'ont pas le choix, on les a jetés sur un chemin, au bout du chemin il y a un acte qui les attend, _leur _acte; ils vont, et leurs pieds nus pressent fortement la terre et s'écorchent aux cailloux. Ça te paraît vulgaire, à toi, la joie d'aller _quelque part?_ Et il y en a d'autres, des silencieux, qui sentant au fond de leur cœur le poids d'images troubles et terrestres; leur vie a été changée parce que, un jour de leur enfance, à cinq ans, à sept ans… C'est bon: ce ne sont pas des hommes supérieurs. Je savais déjà, moi, à sept ans, que j'étais exilé; les odeurs et les sons, le bruit de la pluie sur les toits, les tremblements de la lumière, je les laissais glisser le long de mon corps et tomber autour de moi; je savais ui'ils appartenaient aux autres, et que je ne pourrais jamais en faire _mes _souvenirs. Car les souvenirs sont de grasses nourritures pour ceux qui possèdent les maisons, les bêtes, les domestiques et les champs._

_ORESTES: Some men are born bespoken; a certain path has been assigned them, and at its end there is something they must do, a deed _allotted_. So on and on they trudge, wounding their bare feet on the flints. I suppose that strikes you as vulgar—the joy of going _somewhere definite_. And there are others, men of few words, who bear deep down in their hearts a load of dark imaginings; men whose whole life was changed because one day in childhood, at the age of five or seven— Right; I grant you these are no great men. When I was seven, I know I had no home, no roots. I let sounds and scents, the patter of rain on housetops, the golden play of sunbeams, slip past my body and fall round me—and I knew these were for others, I could never make them _my _memories. For memories are luxuries reserved for people who own houses, cattle, fields, and servants. _

_-_Les Mouches_, Jean-Paul Sartre_

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_April 30th, 1993_

_Office of Harry Potter-Evans-Verres, Hogwarts, Scotland_

_Six years ago_

It had been difficult to visit his parents, as always. It wasn't that it made him unhappy, exactly, or even that it was uncomfortable. It was the sense of loss that bothered him, waiting in the wings.

There was always a huge amount of things to talk about. Mum would always ask after Hermione and Draco and Minerva, although she didn't want to hear about the "politics" or the "magical things," but about how Minerva and Draco were coping with their losses, or about how Hermione was doing so much better these days. She'd met Granville, Hermione's phoenix, at Christmastime, and had been so charmed that she'd been rendered speechless. Granville had given her a feather, and Mum kept it on her vanity mirror.

Dad had his own interests and endless suggestions. He made spirited attempts to talk about magic, but really the possibility of reforming a society was what he always wanted to talk about, sitting down with Harry at the kitchen table for long chats. They'd both read their Heinlein, Asimov, Gibson, Stephenson… they would sit down after dinner and debate possible routes for a future society for hours, talking until their tea was cold and the rest of the world was asleep. How could you intelligently plan for a world of eternal youth, with no disease or poverty? What steps did you need to take now, and in what order? Harry had the sense that his father thought the entire thing was still a bit unreal, and that Harry might be exaggerating his own role in the world these days… but what Oxford liberal sci-fi fan could resist the opportunity to talk about the way a society _should_ be run - a potential Church of All Worlds, or Foundation, or Freeside, or Neo-Victorian England, depending on the choices they made?

His father had paused at one point, last night, to marvel at that. "Do you really think you're capable of making these decisions, son? Do you think anyone could make them in your place? Account for every possibility and plan out an entire civilization?" A pause. "Does anyone even have the right to try?"

"If I could leave it up to the wisdom of crowds and market forces, I would," Harry had replied, staring at the kitchen table. "I can't, and there's no one else to take my place. I have my Fellowship, and I'm not going to refuse the Ring just because it seems impossible or arrogant. I have to try."

His father was thoughtful for a quiet moment, and then smiled. "Does that make me Elrond?"

Harry had rolled his eyes, even as his heart answered, _Yes._

But through all of his visits, Harry knew - even if they didn't - that he was going to have to stop coming to visit. Not forever - not on the scale at which mankind would be operating soon, an unlimited life of unlimited possibility - but for a long time. Already, he'd been coming to visit less often. Soon, he was going to have to ask them to come visit him, instead. And eventually, he'd need to resign himself to letters. He probably should already have done that for their own safety, if for no other reason. They were risking an eternity of life and he was risking the fate of the world every time he had contact. Harry had needed to think about the possibilities (never refuse to think about something, not even once), but he didn't like to dwell on them. Kidnapping, blackmail, torture… it was the fate of the world and the species in the balance.

So ever since Harry had returned to Hogwarts, massive defense force and five decoys going along for the ride, he'd been quiet. He'd spoken to Minerva and given her word from his parents, and then gone straight up to his office through the twisting corridors and up the moving stairs, and when he got there he'd exchanged only the barest of pleasantries with Hermione while getting the Stone back from her and destroying his facsimile. Harry hadn't been unfriendly, but he didn't feel like he had the emotional energy to discuss his feelings, so he'd kept some distance. He got to work on that day's patients as they were cleared and escorted by the aurors, and stayed quiet and polite and distant.

When Draco had gotten there, he'd taken in the look on Harry's face at a glance, and hadn't said much more than good morning.

The first two patients of the day had been easy enough. The first, an older man, had needed his right arm healed from the long and painful twisting that had come from a curse in his younger days. Certain curses were beyond the power of healing spells - indeed, sometimes that was their whole point - and it had been a wonderful thing to see the look on the man's face as his pain faded away for the first time in thirty years. The man had moved and flexed the hand that had been frozen into a claw for decades, and eventually had begun to weep. Harry had accepted his thanks, refused his money, and sent him on his way.

The second patient was even easier: a child born with a chronic seizure disorder. Potions could keep it in check, such as the Caesarian Draught (a potion which had nothing to do with obstetrics, Harry had discovered after one amusing misunderstanding), but that was ruinously expensive. Even taking extraordinary care, it had been easy for Harry to repair the lesions on the child's brain. Unfortunately, he hadn't been able to figure out the cause; the shapes of the lesions, as best he could tell, didn't really point to any specific pathology. Harry had made notes and consulted a manual on differential diagnosis of atypical neural lesions, but had needed to chalk it up to hydrocephaly at the moment and put off further research until later.

He thought he'd have time to dig into it that afternoon. The aurors were slow to vet potential patients, much to Harry's frustration, and despite his wish to scale things up, he probably wouldn't get to see many more than twelve patients that day. He needed to bring on more healers and more aurors, or work out a different system.

Harry was ready when the two aurors escorted in a third patient. It was another older man, and it looked like another easy case. The man had terrible burn scars on the lower part of his face, covering his chin and one of his cheeks with pale, knotted tissue. The man's eyes were wide, staring around with obvious alarm. It wasn't uncommon. Across the room, for example, Hermione was healing someone who'd come in so terrified they were outright sobbing. It soon passed.

Well, _usually _it soon passed. Harry glanced at the corner, where a short brunette woman was sitting quietly, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes vacant. One of the rescues from Azkaban - a French woman named Charlevoix. She, too, had been rescued from pain, only to remain in a state of near-catatonia. She broke out into screams if she was separated from Hermione. They let her stay.

"Hello, sir," Harry said. He tried to make his voice warm, and mustered up a smile. "Just lie down on the bed, there, if you don't mind. There's nothing to worry about… you're going to feel a lot better, very soon."

The old man lay down without protest, gingerly reclining on the bed. Harry sat in a chair next to it. He lay his wand on his lap. The man was frightened. "Are you all right, sir? Nervous?"

Harry glanced at the aurors who escorted the man. One of them shrugged - nothing to contribute. They stood silently at the foot of the bed: an obvious presence of force. It was just a precaution, as were the twelve other aurors in the room. Everyone was carefully screened and had to submit to Veritaserum before they were permitted to receive healing, and before entering they were disenchanted and dispelled and everything else an auror could do. Precaution was taken against Imperius and Confundus… even against false or locked memories. There were traps and wards and yet more traps, and outside assault was as impossible as they could make it.

"I… I don't… I'm sorry," murmured the patient with a quavering voice.

"For what?" Harry asked, smiling.

"I came for… for my face and chest. All burnt, long ago. I'd forgotten…"

Harry made the connection. "You'd locked away the memory of how it happened?"

"Not me. St. Mungo's. They'd had to… I couldn't... I…" The man's face twisted, stiff flesh on his chin rippling, and he clenched his eyes shut. Tears began to roll down his cheeks.

"I'm sorry you lost that protection," Harry said, gently. "We can help you with that again, if you want. Or we can put you in touch with someone we work with… a type of special healer who helps people with problems that they can't face and don't want to forget."

"The boy… my boy," gasped the man. Harry just sat quietly. There was nothing he could say - he needed to just let the man take a moment to work through whatever had happened.

"Th- There was a fire…" said the man, haltingly. "My fault. I wanted… I'm Salvation Starr, maybe you've… I am a pyromancer. There is none greater in Britain." Harry hadn't heard of the man, but that wasn't that surprising. Despite everything that had happened, he'd only learned about magic itself two years ago. There was still a lot of common knowledge that had escaped him, and there were famous magical researchers that he'd never heard of, Chocolate Frog card or no. Harry glanced at one of the aurors again, and the auror nodded in confirmation.

The patient raised his arms up, and hugged himself. He turned onto his side, away from Harry. "So many have been hurt. I myself… There was a fire. There was a terrible fire. I wanted to find a barrier against all flame. Ever since the fall of Sontag… I wanted to find a way to stop it… stop such a fire-" The man stopped speaking, his voice strangled away into a pained squeak by his grief.

"An accident? With your research?" Harry said, gently. The wizarding settlement of Sontag had been burned in the second goblin rebellion of 1612. It had been long-abandoned by that time - making its destruction more of a threat than a real attack - but it had still been considered a tragedy. None of the wizards present then had been able to extinguish the magical flames the goblins had wielded against Sontag, and the incident was always described in history books with an ominous tone.

"My boy… he…" Salvation's shoulders shook, and he lapsed back into silence.

"Sir…you had a son, sir?" said the other auror. He sounded surprised - that must not have turned up in their investigation._ Usually they were so careful… so slow that I have been _complaining_ about it._

The first auror asked, "Are you quite sure that-"

"Not my child," said the man, his voice thick. "My nephew. A Muggle. But he was like my child. I loved him like my child. My boy. My boy..."

The auror nodded slowly. "Yes, sir."

"I'm so sorry, sir," said Harry. He stood up, as quietly as he could. "We're going to have you back another day, I think, sir."

Salvation rolled back over, suddenly, and snatched at the hem of Harry's sleeve with a desperate hand. The aurors drew their wands so quickly that Harry barely even saw them move, but didn't intervene.

"Wait!" said Salvation, his voice harsh. He slid his legs to the side and sat up on the bed, not letting go of Harry. "You're the Boy-Who-Lived. You can… I know you can…"

"I can't bring back the dead, sir. I'm so sorry, but I can't…" _Not yet_, thought Harry, looking over at Draco, who was sitting with Hermione at the other end of the room, helping her with her patient. _But I will. I have promises to keep. I will._

He looked back down at the patient. "I'm so sorry, but I can't bring him back. I _wish_ I could, believe me I do, but I can't."

"He would stay with me, sometimes. I had a room for him. He loved dragons. Always loved dragons. I used Welsh Greens, sometimes, and he would sit behind the wards and stare for hours at them. Big posters of dragons all over the walls. Wanted to see a Chinese Fireball, one day," husked Salvation.

"I didn't know he was in the house... I didn't know he was in the house… I would never have been experimenting if I'd known they were going to come early. My sister and my boy… The cursed fire, I thought I could stop it with my new ward. I thought I had it. I never would have… I didn't know..." The man's voice broke into a sob. Then it cut off, and his eyes fixed themselves on Harry again, coming back from some far-off place of grief and regret. "Bring back my boy. I know things… I went far abroad when I was young. I know how to do things. I have many things. You can have all my knowledge, everything I have. Bring back my boy. Bring back Davey."

Harry shook his head again. This had gone on long enough, and even though it seemed cruel, he needed to defuse the situation before it got out of hand. "I'm sorry, sir."

He raised one hand to give a signal to the aurors, but paused, staring past them at the entrance to his office, where a piece of parchment folded into an airplane had just glided into the room. It was one of the memos they used at the Ministry of Magic, lazily propelling itself with slow flaps of papery wings.

"Bring back my boy," said Salvatore again, more quietly. "Please… I'm begging you. I know you have the power. I have much to offer. Old rituals and ancient spells, long forgotten by all others. I have sacrificed much to gain them - done grim things for grim people - but I will give them over to you. I have been to the nave of Beatus Payens and I have been to the land of the Tuatha… I have traded power for power, to learn all I could of flame and fire. You can have all that I know. Every rune in my books. Every bit of flame. Please… you must. I didn't… oh Merlin… I didn't know he was there, he was an innocent, don't you see, I didn't know he was there. Bring him back." He steadied himself. "You must, Harry Potter."

The aurors were moving on their own account, and one of them came to Salvatore's elbow. "Master Starr," he said, gently. Harry pulled away from the patient. Salvatore didn't resist, but didn't let go; his hand remained suspended in the air, clutching at nothing as Harry's sleeve left his grip.

"Please, sir," said Salvatore, but the emotion had left his voice. It sounded flat and full of sadness.

Harry stepped towards the memo, which was sailing along sedately, and held out his hand. The parchment plane landed on his palm. Behind him, the auror helped Salvatore to his feet.

When Harry opened the parchment, he found that it really was a standard Ministry memo, sealed and embossed in the normal way. But it was a very long way from home. The seal was cracked in the middle, and the rest of the memo was creased into squares and crinkled with two parallel lines: the thing had been folded up and sent here by owl. Harry opened it, frowning.

The top few inches of a newspaper had been pasted to the parchment: that evening's edition of _The Daily Prophet. _There was no time marking, but it was only the early afternoon - this was a message from the future. At least four hours, but perhaps as far as six.

_TRAGEDY: POTTER ATTACKED, CLINIC RAZED_

Nothing more.

_Why send only this? _Harry thought. But there was no time to think it through. When given an anonymous warning, the course was clear (or at least, seemed obvious enough to Harry): react quickly, but in an unorthodox way. He couldn't ignore the message, especially since it might have come from the future, but if you reacted predictably to an anonymous warning, then you were only granting your enemy the power to control you.

Harry's thoughts moved in a flash. _First-level response, standard lockdown. Vulnerable to specific kinds of attacks. Obvious alternative - evacuation - has the same problem. Brief message and unorthodox delivery style that bypassed other viewers… points to some betrayal or widespread attack… an owl takes twelve minutes to get here from the Ministry… an ally there, betraying a conspiracy? Why anonymous? Warning was sent from as far as six hours in the future… a message there, clearly. The attack will happen within the next six hours… it will do serious damage, but since this message was sent, we have the power to mitigate or change that. _Still, though, the first question was dragging on his thoughts, demanding attention: _If you're going to help, why send only this? Is the future outcome - the alternative that prompted the message - so terrible that you don't want it known?_

"You _must_," said Salvatore from behind him, raising his voice again. Hermione and Draco were looking over in alarm, now, and the pair of aurors with their patient and the ones at the door had drawn their wands.

"Harry Potter, I _demand_ it. He _cannot _remain gone - remain burned." Salvatore's voice cracked at the last word. "You _will_."

And with a sinking feeling in his stomach, Harry realized another possible reason for the message.

_Sabotage from the future. Information cannot go any further than six hours back in time. So right now, at this moment, we can't go back and prevent-_

"You _will!"_ said Salvatore again, and Harry hadn't even turned around before he felt the bloom of heat on his back.

"_This is an insane thing you're trying, boy," _Moody had said to them, last year. _"There's too much evil and too much madness in the world. Too much damn randomness. You can't account for everything. We can test the people who visit, but any security system in any fortress is based on keeping people out. It's not like in the Muggle world. A Muggle without a weapon is about as dangerous as a dog. A powerful wizard without a wand, on the other hand, could be tasting your blood within minutes. You can't secure your most important assets - you, the Stone, Voldie - if you also need to allow open access to them. It's an impossible problem."_

"_That just means that no one has ever been prepared or paranoid or clever enough," _Harry had replied, with far too much self-assurance. _"No problem is impossible."_

"_Immobi_nnghhh," Harry heard one auror say, the spell cut off in a grunt of pain, an instant before he felt an sweeping force pluck his legs out from underneath him and lift him into the air, like the scooping palm of a gentle giant. He was hurled across the room in a tumble, the world spinning around him in a confusion of red and grey, before hitting the opposite wall hard enough to drive the air out of his lungs. He found himself looking up at Hermione, Draco, and the pair of aurors that had been escorting her patient. The aurors had jumped in front of the other two and the patient, and were already acting - indeed, they had reacted so quickly that one of them had already raised a shield of brightly-glowing silver spheres the size of golf balls.

Salvatore barely even used incantations, and had no wand, but he had filled the air with flame, nonetheless. In moments, it had blocked out everything from Harry's sight but its own bright light, tumbling and toiling in the air like a living thing. He could smell hair burning and knew that he was on fire, and he beat at his head and face, flapping at himself and trying to smother the flames, screaming. He had a moment's glimpse of the aurors - they were burnt and burning, too, one of them also screaming, his face a blackened thing. Draco tackled that one, putting his wand to her chest and trying to do something. Hermione was already standing, her own wand raised, casting curses. Charlevoix was cowering behind her, her arms wrapped in front of her head in an attempt to protect herself. Hermione's pale face was lit a hellish orange by the fire-glow.

Harry couldn't follow the combat, couldn't find his wand, could barely hold on to his _sanity_ as he yanked his robes up and tried to smother the flames on his body with them, ripping them with desperate yanks until they moved freely and slamming them down again and again to try to beat out the fire.

By the time he had put out the flames, the room was already so full of smoke that he was coughing and choking. He couldn't find his wand, oh god _where was his wand_… what did he have… He jammed his hand into his pouch and tried to choke out some words, but he could only cough and hack, doubling up, and god he could barely even see, everything was just a reddish-orange haze. What was the sign language - he couldn't remember, it was gone from his head - couldn't breathe couldn't see… Just thick smoke everywhere.

Harry could hear someone chanting, and if he hadn't already been panicking, he probably would have dissolved in terror when he recognized the words. "_Az-reth. Az-reth. Az-reth_." He remembered Voldemort saying that, and he remembered the thing that had come at that call.

The red-lit smoke turned scarlet.

Someone grabbed his legs, and Harry kicked at the hands, wildly. They snatched him with incredible strength - inhuman strength- and he felt himself lifted bodily as he was hauled into the air. He would have screamed again, but when he tried to draw a breathe it came with the burning harshness of smoke, and he spasmed with coughing again, sucking poisonous air and choking on it.

The hands threw him, and he was flying.

He landed hard, smashing into a corner of stone, and felt a riot of pain in his ribs, made worse by his hacking and coughing. But the air was fresher where he'd landed. His thoughts were a confused stream - where was he, why was he in the hall, what was happening - but he could breathe. He sucked in the air and the dimming world grew sharper.

Harry rolled onto his side, still gasping, and looked back at his office. Thick black smoke was roiling inside, pouring out in a dense cloud.

As he watched, it began to thin, and he could make out shapes within it. Figures shouting words and casting spells, colored light tinging the smoke. One figure stood at the center, surrounding by a bright glow of scarlet that highlighted it like a silhouette against the sun. That broken man. Salvatore. His Fiendfyre was some monstrous snake, and it was burning away all the smoke in the room as it lashed out again and again. There were five aurors still standing, protecting each other and the patient and Draco and Charlevoix. Harry knew that more would be on the way, here within the minute.

And there was Hermione.

It was impossible to fight Fiendfyre, of course. Nothing could beat that, not that they could imagine. All you could do was hope to avoid it, and even _that_ seemed impossible. But somehow, she was doing it. Every time it lashed out, she would leap or dodge or duck, sending another curse Salvatore's way, forcing the creature of hellish fire to return to him. The aurors poured on their own attacks, a blur of aggressive spellcasting that Harry could barely follow. The very nature of the Fiendfyre consumed most curses, but even that extravagance was beginning to prove insufficient. Salvatore was badly wounded. Blood was pouring out of a ragged hole in his stomach, and he was missing some fingers on one hand.

Harry could hear the man screaming, over and over. "NO! NO! NO!" He screamed and threw waves of flame, beat back attacks with living fire, and flooded the room with heat and smoke. "_You can't!_" he screamed.

An instant later, a curse hit him in the chest, and he collapsed, his face lifeless.

The Fiendfyre flared up and roared with leprous flame, surging larger and larger as the control left it, and it ran free. It grew brighter and brighter, its wide coils and thrashing,

An auror fell, obliterated to the waist by flame. Another had already lost an arm. Draco was screaming. Harry could see Hermione fall, withering like a leaf in the summer heat.

Granville called. The phoenix's cry was piercing and pure, like the voice of a god.

Harry saw the creature for only a moment as it flashed past him, soaring with the speed and determination of an arrow. It swept overhead with a streak of golden flame.

It never hesitated. It flew at the Fiendfyre with a courage and joy so pure that Harry's heart broke to see it.

Gold met scarlet. With a sound like thunder, both vanished. Nothing was left in their wake but stinking smoke and the echoes of a phoenix's last call.

He felt hands on him again - an auror, roughly pulling at his wounds and laying a wand on him.. More were racing in past her, charging towards his office. Spells cleared the air, cleared his view.

He saw burned and dying aurors, thrashing. Several of them still standing, staggering and injured but with wands raised high. Draco, weeping.

He saw Charlevoix, her hands a tangle of charred flesh. Cradling something.

Cradling Hermione.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_ÉLECTRE: Il fait beau. Partout, dans la plaine, des hommes lèvant la tête et disent: "Il fait beau", et ils sont contents. O bourreaux de vous-mêmes, avez-vous oublié cet humble contentement du paysan qui marche sur sa terre et qui dit: "Il fait beau"? Vous voilà les bras ballants, la tête basse, respirant à peine. Vos morts se collent contre vous, et vous demeurez immobiles dans la crainte de les bousculer au moindre geste. Ce serait affreux, n'est ce-pas? si vos mains traversaient soudain une petite vapeur moite, l'âme de votre père ou de votre aïeul? Mais regardez-moi: j'étends les bras, je m'élargis, et je m'étire comme un homme qui s'éveille, j'occupe ma place au soleil, toute ma place. Est-ce que le ciel me tombe sur la tête? Je danse, voyez, je danse, et je ne sense rien que le souffle du vent dans mes cheveux. Où sont les morts? Croyez-vous qu'ils dansent avec moi, en mesure?_

_ELECTRA: The sun is shining. Everywhere down in the plains men are looking up and saying:_

"_It's a fine day," and they're happy. Are you so set on making yourselves wretched that you've_

_forgotten the simple joy of the peasant who says as he walks across his fields: "It's a fine day"?_

_No, there you stand hanging your heads, moping and mumbling, more dead than alive. You're_

_too terrified to lift a finger, afraid of jolting your precious ghosts if you make any movement._

_That would be dreadful, wouldn't it, if your hand suddenly went through a patch of clammy mist,_

_and it was your grandmother's ghost! Now look at me. I'm spreading out my arms freely, and I'm_

_stretching like someone just roused from sleep. I have my place in the sunlight, my full place and to spare. And does the sky fall on my head? Now I'm dancing, see, I'm dancing, and all I feel is the wind's breath fanning my cheeks. Where are the dead? Do you think they're dancing with me, in step? _

_-_Les Mouches_, Jean-Paul Sartre_

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

Wearily, Harry mounted the stairs to the workroom of the Headmistress. In his pocket were four phials of blood from Vincent Crabbe, obtained after two hours of intimidation and veiled threats. Moody had helped, along with two aurors Moody had trained himself - an older one named Hedley Kwannon, and one barely out of training named Nymphadora Tonks. The glass phials, filled with the blood of Hermione's enemy, clicked against each other as Harry climbed the stairs.

He pushed open the door. It was silent inside. Reddish light from the dawn illuminated the alchemical diagram on the floor: nested and interlaced circles and pentagons surrounding a central pentacle. He'd been here once before, when he first demonstrated partial Transfiguration - so long ago! - and the room didn't look to have been used since that visit.

"Mad-Eye's not here yet. We have to wait," said Draco's voice from his left. Harry started, and stepped forward to see that the boy was sitting at the base of the circular wall, head slumped forward.

"How are you, Draco?" asked Harry, quietly.

"This was your fault," Draco replied.

"I know."

"No, you don't, you stupid piece of arrogant filth," said the Slytherin boy, but there was no anger in his voice. It was disconcertingly flat, with nothing but weariness and sorrow - the sorrow of someone who had been required to endure too much, too soon. "You think that you just made a mistake. You'd do the same thing all over again, but you'd just be sure to include one more trap. One more level of manipulation or cleverness. You don't see that the entire thing is… impossible. It's just impossible, and you won't see that, and Hermione just keeps _listening to you_, and now _she's _paid for _your _stupidity_._"

"I know."

"And even worse, this is just another reminder of why I was stupid to ever trust you - to ever get involved in this asinine little play. Your goals are… mad. _Insane_. But you don't recognize that, since you don't recognize any limits to… to… to _anything_."

It was more than that, of course. It was even more than the terrible suffering and temporary absence of Hermione, as badly as that, too, had hurt the other boy. There was something more.

_You're worried that I can't deliver on my promises… that you've placed hope in false prophecies and a false prophet. You're wondering if I am just a freak prodigy of Muggle science who looked really impressive in schoolyard antics, since he had a whole other world of tricks to steal, and who got lucky once… but who might just not be able to cut it in the real world._

Draco looked up at him, and the boy looked unspeakably sad - like he'd lost something precious.

_You're worried I'll never be able to bring your father back, after all._

"Draco, there is-"

"Shut up," interrupted Draco, his voice hardening. "Shut up and let's just wait without talking. You're always _talking_, but it didn't help her, did it? Her phoenix burned and she burned. And now she's dead, again, just like she was afraid would happen." Draco's eyes were red, but dry. "She told me that… those months when she was trying to get her Patronus. To meet your _expectations_. She told me that she was terrified of dying again and that she thought that was probably the reason she couldn't do it. 'I wake up screaming sometimes, Draco,' she said."

"Stop," said Harry, squeezing his eyes shut.

Draco sounded more like he was scolding himself than Harry. His words were black and bitter. "And now she's all burned up and dead again, and it's your fault again. Because you don't understand what is _possible_, and you _talk_ and you _push_ \- oh, Merlin, it always sounds so insane when you first start talking, but by the end of the conversation it's the _rest of the world_ that seems insane, and how could I ever think that _made sense_? How could anyone be that damned arrogant?"

Harry turned away, blindly. His eyes burned with hot tears. For a moment, despite all of his resolutions, he almost called on his dark side: to cool him and calm him and solve this problem. The cold emptiness of Voldemort's thought patterns would have been preferable to this. Null was better than negative.

But he didn't, because one did not abandon carefully-considered decisions during the exact sort of situation for which you had prepared them. All he could do, instead, was sink to the stone, slick with dust under his fingers, and cry.

After a time, his shoulders stopped heaving, and his breathing slowed from great shuddering gasps into quiet evenness. Draco had said nothing, and hadn't moved. When Harry pushed himself up into a sitting position, he saw through a smear of tears that the other boy was just staring at him, dully, with red-rimmed eyes.

"I…" began Harry, but he found that he didn't have any words. He fell silent again.

Eventually, he stood up and drew his wand. "_Scourgify_," he cast, his voice heavy. The spell cleared away the dust. Putting away his wand, Harry opened his pouch and reached in. "Cauldron," he said to it, and felt the metal lip of a small cauldron leap into his hand. He pulled it free of the pouch, which distended to permit its passage, and set it in the center of the diagram.

Harry sat down next to it, and took the phials of blood out of his pocket. He set them down next to the cauldron.

Draco pushed himself to his feet, and walked over. Digging into the pocket of his robes - _still the same burned ones, had he not had a chance to change? no, of course... he left them on for effect_ \- he pulled out a small bag of soft bicorn skin and dropped it down next to the other objects. The flesh of a servant, willingly given by Odette Charlevoix.

Moody would be here soon, with a piece of bone from Hermione's father. He had insisted on doing this part himself, saying that he didn't trust anyone else to invisibly infiltrate Happy Smiles Family Dentistry, stun one of the owners, extract a chip of bone while the man was unconscious, and fix any memories afterwards. It was a thankless task, and Harry thought that some part of Moody's insistence was probably repentance. Moody blamed himself for the attack, almost as much as he blamed Harry. "We weren't paranoid enough," he had said, bitterly. It was as heavy an indictment as he could deliver. 

They waited in silence.

Finally, Harry spoke again. "I tried. I tried as hard as I could. I thought through everything and planned it out and assembled every bit of information… I counted forty-three known threats and planned for eight kinds of unknowns. We had just… _layers_ of security and plans." Draco knew most of them, of course. He'd helped, along with Moody and Hermione and Bones.

There were fat folders, stuffed with parchments - or had been, anyway, before the fire ate the hidden boltholes that had been serving as safes. Dossiers on people and information on countries: _CHINA. Overview: Continued worries about European and British dominance in magic, may seek to strike before new regime rises. Often isolates self and seeks to extend power over Ten Thousand, but pragmatic leadership points to a willingness to shift tactics, if seems advantageous. Traditional value for immortality, connected to long specialization in potioneering. Informal and formal power structures largely mirror each other; little vulnerability to factionalization but suggests opportunity to shift key functionaries and alter trajectory of entire country. _And so on.

Plans within plans, contingency upon contingency: living and adaptable Matryoshka dolls whirling in a furious dance. A location that couldn't be stormed by force, allies watching other allies, security measures and magical wards that could cut off the life of an attacker in moments. And none of it had done any good when the mind of a powerful wizard had broken. He had died, but so had others. So had Hermione.

"It's not your fault that you can't do the impossible. It's only your fault that you _try_ the impossible, and other people pay for it," replied Draco. He stared down at Harry. "You can't plan for everything. The world is dark and people are vicious. Even the good ones are vicious, and the bad ones are worse, and the crazy ones do things you couldn't possibly predict. You can't control the universe, Harry Potter-Evans-Verres, you miserable, arrogant little scrub."

Harry was silent once more, and looked away, unable to meet Draco's gaze. He hugged his knees. Draco turned away, walking heavily towards the door.

_There's too much evil and too much madness in the world_, Moody had said._ Too much damn randomness._

_You can't control the universe._

"I don't accept that," he whispered, as much for himself as for Draco.

"What?" demanded Draco, turning back around, his voice incredulous - angry now, where he hadn't been before.

"I don't accept that," Harry repeated, more loudly. He looked up. "_I do not accept that._"

"You can't-"

Harry lurched to his feet, swaying slightly, his kneecaps popping from the sudden shift. There was iron in his voice, now. It wasn't cold iron; it wasn't the chill metal of his dark side, icy with hateful clarity. It was iron at a white heat. He glowed with it.

"No," Harry said, his voice as certain as a hammerblow.

"No," he repeated.

"No," he said again.

"I do not accept that. I do not accept death. I do not accept decline. I do not accept madness. I do not accept randomness. They are all part of the universe, and they are all important… but I do not - _mankind does not_ \- have to accept them," said Harry. "If you want out of this, then say so. If you want to lead a different life, then you _know_ I won't begrudge you that. I will make that happen, and that choice I once gave you will always be yours: you may choose another path and you will not hear a word of regret from me. Your preferences are sacred. So if you think this can't be done… go." Harry's face was grim. "But I'm not going."

Harry walked towards Draco until he was inches away from the other boy. Iron was bright in his words.

"Right now, there is a little girl somewhere in the world. She's a small thing for her age, with big eyes. She loves her big brother. She wants to be just like her mother when she grows up. But tonight, there will be an accident. A rotten tree will collapse as the little girl climbs it, and she'll tumble to the ground, and she'll land badly. And she'll die. And then her big eyes will be gone, and her brother will never see her again, and she'll never grow up to be like her mother. Everything she ever was or will be: gone and dead and buried.

"Her brother will deal with his grief, in time, and may even find solace and strength in stories about how death is necessary. Her mother will cry and hurt, but in time it will hurt less, and she'll focus more on her son, and eventually the loss will fade until it's just a nagging ache in her heart - that never quite leaves. And the world will go on, because it's happened every day in every way, and we have learned how to manage the loss.

"_But it doesn't have to be that way_. And I don't just mean saving that little girl, or Hermione, or even your father, Draco, but every little girl and friend and father. People die every day and they always have but I _do not accept it_."

But something of Harry's heat had communicated itself with his words, and Draco's eyes were lit as bright as the red glow of Fiendfyre. He seized the front of Harry's robes, twisting his fists in them, and shoved as hard as he could. Harry stumbled backwards, foot skidding, and only barely kept his balance.

"Do you think I _want them to die_, you sanctimonious idiot? Are you even _listening_ to me? I'm saying that it doesn't matter _how much you want them to live_, because the world is too complicated! You're _denying the data!_ You want to do things that no one has ever done, and do them all at once which no one has even _dreamed of doing_. Not Dumbledore, not Salazar Slytherin, not the Peverell brothers, not even Merlin the bloody First Enchanter himself! The greatest wizards in the history of the world only barely attempted some tiny fraction of your insane fever dream! You want to rule the world and end death, good and fine, and you want to end poverty and sickness and make everyone equal and put goblins and other trash up on a pedestal and all that other fluffy _nonsense_, fine!" Draco was shouting, now. "But it is _impossible_! It is just _impossible_! To do any _one _of them was beyond anyone's power, even those who tried, much less _all of it at once!_ And by trying to do it, you're going to burn down this world and everyone in it, and it is just _beyond arrogant and stupid to look at the world and declare that you are going to change it so much and so fast_, and we are all _suffering _because of_ that!_"

Harry roared back at Draco, his voice larger than himself, as though it were echoing the cries of others, of legions, "I don't give a _damn_ if it is impossible! I don't give a _damn_ if no one has ever done it or tried it or dreamed it in the history of the world! 'Impossible' is a little word and a petty one - it's the word of small minds and small imaginations, and I _reject it_."

Draco opened his mouth to say something, but Harry continued over him, shouting now, white iron in his words and eyes and heart, a white glow suffusing him as a glow from his wand waxed brighter and brighter.

"We are standing on the brink - at the moment of crux between peril and paradise, Draco! We are caught at the edges of two singularities, held equipoise at their event horizons, and it is _terrifying_, but when they offer you the Ring you don't reject it with the word 'impossible!'"

Draco shouted back, lunging forward to stab a finger into Harry's chest: accusatory. "_Not everything is possible in this world!"_

And Harry replied, quietly, "Draco. There are more worlds than this one. We'll make one where we can save everybody. Impossible just means you haven't figured out how to cheat."

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_JUPITER: Pauvres gens! Tu vas leur faire cadeau de la solitude et de la honte, tu vas arracher les étoffes dont je les avais couverts, et tu leur montreras soudain leur existence, leur obscène et fade existence, qui leur est donnée pour rien._

_ORESTE: Pourquoi leur refuserais-je le désepoir qui est en moi, puisque c'est leur lot?_

_JUPITER: Qu'en feront-ils?_

_ORESTE: Ce qu'ils voudront: ils sont libres, et la vie humaine commence de l'autre côté du désespoir._

_ZEUS: Poor people! Your gift to them will be a sad one; of loneliness and shame. You will tear_

_from their eyes the veils I had laid on them, and they will see their lives as they are, foul and_

_futile, a barren boon._

_ORESTES Why, since it is their lot, should I deny them the despair I have in me?_

_ZEUS: What will they make of it?_

_ORESTES What they choose. They're free; and human life begins on the far side of despair._

_-_Les Mouches_, Jean-Paul Sartre_

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_April 30th, 1999_

_John Snow Center for Medicine and Tower School of Doubt (The Tower)_

_Now_

Pain has an element of blank, and Harry suffered for some uncertain amount of time, twisting before Bellatrix Black's Cruciatus Curse. It was pain on another level - beyond the sort of suffering that should have been possible with mere nerves - a torture that transcended physicality. His very existence was in agony.

Eventually, it stopped, and Harry found that he was lying on the floor of the corridor some distance down from where he'd begun. They'd moved him. He was soaked in sweat and shaking, and his throat was hoarse from screams he hadn't even know he'd been making.

The other Bellatrix was casting spells, sealing them off from the Extension Establishment. She cast them so quickly and so fluidly that Harry thought that she might have been able to hold off every single one of his gathered allies, striking them down one by one as they attempted the corridor.

His torturer stood over him, leering, crazed. "Little dollies are dead. Your stupid slut of a mudblood is dead. I killed her. Your aurors are dead. And now you're going to tell me where the Dark Lord is, or we'll start killing everyone else."

Harry tried to calm his panting and sobbing. He separated it from himself, and closed his eyes. After a moment, he opened them again, fixing them on the witch. "I'm sorry. I want you to know that. What happened to you should never happen to anyone, and I am so sorry that it did. We're going to get you help."

All amusement vanished from her face. She looked bored, and contemptuous, staring at him with eyes of darkness and blood. "There is no help, little billy. And you have no way out."

Harry closed his eyes again. "I know. I thought, maybe… I thought others could do this with me. That maybe they could take my place if they worked together. That I could be free. And maybe that will happen, someday. But sometimes a person gets lucky enough, or unlucky enough, to be put on the spot. To be the crux of things. And I had a friend, once - a phoenix - who taught me never to shy away from that."

"You talk like him," said the other Bellatrix. The one standing over Harry nodded, a look of fascination on her face. "But you are a wretched little homunculus, and now you'll learn a lesson."

"Impossible little billy boy," sneered the witch standing over Harry, and leaned forward, her wand pointing at his chest. "Time time time."

"I'm sorry, Bellatrix. I don't accept this," Harry said.

Blood blossomed from her chest, and Bellatrix Black gurgled. Her remaining eye opened wide, and her mouth worked open and shut.

The Cloak of Invisibility slid to the floor.

And Hermione Granger pulled her fist from Bellatrix's back, blood splattering her determined face.

"No!" shrieked the other Bellatrix, whirling and raising her wand, but a hail of curses from behind Hermione cut her down and cut off her scream. Stunned and bound and silenced and paralyzed, Bellatrix Black toppled over, her face still distorted in shock and fury and hatred.

"I'm sorry, Bellatrix. I found a way to cheat," said Harry.

"Mr. Potter!" called Pip from the corner at the end of the corridor. He was staggering forward, seemingly about to faint, but was supported by J.C. Kraeme. She had his arm around her neck and was holding him up. They trailed behind Hyori, who had her wand up and still fixed on the two Bellatrixen as she strode down the hall. Her face was grim - but less grim than usual.

Hermione glanced over at him and nodded at him as she knelt next to the witch she'd felled. He could see her wand sticking out of her belt, but it was broken. The last two inches were missing, exposing the raw reddish strand of dragon heartstring at the core. Useless.

Harry winced as she plunged two fingers into her left arm, and yanked free her spare wand. She set it to Bellatrix's chest, and began casting, working to heal the wound she'd caused and save the life of the insane villain.

He sighed, lowering his head to the ground. He just lay there, still, for a moment, and smiled. He smiled in spite of everything.

Out of sight, down where the north and south corridor met, he knew that the entrance to the Tower stood, unharmed. A golden oval, bright-shining and standing with impossible solidity.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_JUPITER: Rentre dans la nature, fils dénaturé: connais ta faute, abhorre-la, arrache-la de toi comme une dent cariée et puante. Ou redoute que la mer ne se retire devant toi, que les sources ne se tarissent sur ton chemin, que les pierres et les rochers ne roulent hors de ta route et que la terre ne s'effrite sous tes pas._

_ORESTE: Qu'elle s'effrite! Que les rochers me condamnent et que les plantes se fanent sur mon passage: tout ton univers ne suffira pas à me donner tort. Tu es le roi de Dieux, Jupiter, le roi des pierres et des étoiles, le roi des vagues de la mer. Mais tu n'es pas le roi des hommes._

_JUPITER: Je ne suis pas ton roi, larve impudente. Qui donc t'a créé?_

_ORESTE: Toi. Mais il ne faillait pas me créer libre._

_ZEUS: Know your sin, abhor it, and tear it from you as one tears out a rotten, noisome tooth. Or else — beware lest the very seas shrink back at your approach, springs dry up when you pass by, stones and rocks roll from your path, and the earth crumbles under your feet._

_ORESTES: Let it crumble! Let the rocks revile me, and flowers wilt at my coming. Your whole_

_universe is not enough to prove me wrong. You are the king of gods, king of stones and stars,_

_king of the waves of the sea. But you are not the king of man._

_ZEUS: Impudent spawn! So I am not your king? Who, then, made you?_

_ORESTES: You. But you blundered; you should not have made me free. _

_-_Les Mouches_, Jean-Paul Sartre_


	39. Directoire Exécutif

_When we look for a guidance hand, where do we look? Ever upwards, ever upwards! The stars above radiate a divine influence, and it washes over everything. It gives shape to the lesser seers and to our own wishes, and it gives magic to the flower in the field and beast in the fold. Their unknowable will provides for the oddities of magic. Why does a certain word have effect with certain wand? Upwards, ever upwards! It is the will of the stars! If you wish to find a pattern to the world, then you must look only upwards… ever upwards! That is the secret of all magic._

_-_excerpted from Lord Runcible LeValley's translation of _The Stars Our Destiny_, by Guileford Wednesday

_What possible congruence of theories or schemes could explain the many aspects of magic in the world? It is an outright impossibility, and any attempt to square the circle must reckon with the seemingly innumerable contradictory and unfathomable aspects of the magical world. The blanket assertion that the stars are at work is not explanation enough._

_Gamp's Law of Transfiguration, which sets limits seemingly imposed by culture and custom? The inherent magical properties of the subjects of magizoology and herbology, where unthinking flora and fauna both defy consistent categories? The law of sympathy that underlies many rituals or potions, drawing upon either a metaphorical intimacy or a synecdochal partiality to a power or target in order to channel the effect? The potent accidental magic of the underaged, which seems to have no relation to any theory of practised magic, but instead dwells in a realm of will, wishes, and wild randomness? The linguistic uniformity of high ritual and new spells alike, with onomatopoeic properties to incantations which range from the most ancient syllabaries to last week's innovations? Wordless or wandless magic, which relies upon a twist of thought or frame of mind to produce the intended effect - even when that twist or frame bears not the slightest resemblance to the spoken spell?_

_Magic is a mystery by its very nature, and each field and aspect of study deserves its own theories - they cannot be reconciled with each other in some grand schema. In every age, and even in our own waning era, the only advancements have come from dedicated transfigurationists, potioneers, magizoologists, enchanters, or the like… never from the grand madness of addled "magical theoreticians." Magic is a gem with many facets, through which we may shine light from many directions. But try to shine light through them all, and you produce no illumination: only confusion. Try to combine these facets into a single face, and you produce no lens - not even the manifold lights of Wednesday's much-beloved stars: only fragments._

_-_excerpted from _American Mage_'s review of same

≡≡≡_Ω≡≡≡_

_On the shores of the lake of teeth, where the black hills end, Tír inna n-Óc_

_May 15th, 1999_

_Three weeks later_

Once upon a time, a city of tents and pavilions stood here, illuminated by its own small sun. Bundiwigs and lejis would run in laughing circles before gladsome parties of elegant gaunts, while the visc let tissue-thin wings carry them in lazy loops overhead. When their sun darkened, it would be time for the sharpening.

But all of that was in the past, and no one today remained to tell that story. There was only the gentle whisper of tooth on tooth as the ivory waves rolled upon the shore… and a certain quiet wail hidden in the wind.

Three figures stood in the uncertain grey light, their dream-flesh composed of intricately roiling shadows.

"So then," said the first figure. "Our American witch and her organization are gone - years of management, wiped out by incompetence and chance. And now the British bishop has been captured, wasting more of our time. Entire _days_ of our time, considering the effort spent in scrying for her location, altering her to our needs, capturing her pawns from hither and thither, and using the Touch to maintain our position. Our situation has declined, and the Tower remains beyond our sight or reach. We cannot trigger the Lethe Touch and protect ourselves. We are _exposed_."

The second figure listened silently. After the first was done speaking, it turned to regard the third creature of living shadow, as though inviting the conversation to continue.

"And so we need a next move, Meldh, to build on this one," replied the third figure. It seems clear that the attack worked in its essentials. The Tower was breached and its defenders defeated. Yet there is little discussion in the British gendarmerie about changing their defenses. There is no reason not to awaken Tineagar and send her to the attack. We still have the wolf at Busan - if we double the force we send, then they will succeed by main strength. There is little risk."

"The risk is that we would be wasting our time, enacting the same foolish plan again, and we would be risking leaving the American in their hands, as well. She has much of your lore, Nell - would you see it released back into the world, to strengthen and perpetuate the threat of magic?" Meldh's voice was strident.

"Success will mean we might eliminate the risk of exposure through Bellatrix Black, as well as the threat of the Tower, and cut off the entire threat of this new approach to magical discovery. A few charms and Brittonic rituals are a small risk," said Nell, dismissively.

"When your toes are at the brink, every handspan of distance counts. What if it is the spread of the Babylonian Garden that pushes us over?" retorted Meldh. "I do not doubt you equipped your bishop with that ritual, in addition to a pack of howling idiots. What if he employs it in conjunction with the Philosopher's Stone? How many of him do you wish to face?"

"A direct hand is needed," said the second figure, interjecting. "You were correct in our last conversation, when you said as much. We have passed the point where we can hope to deter this new regime. By the time any further action can be taken, all the world will be united. It is time to take control, and employ this new tool that has been readied for our use."

This suggestion, phrased in the mildest of tones, struck the other two like a physical blow.

"You will venture forth and risk yourself? That is... surprising," said Meldh.

"Not myself. You." said the second figure.

This prompted an even longer pause.

"I am not certain that is wise. Putting myself beyond your sight, protection, or aid… I would be submitting myself to greater dangers than I have encountered in centuries."

"I will enrich you with my own lore."

"I am grateful," said Meldh, although its tone of voice suggested otherwise. "And yet it would be risky beyond ken. The dangers are… formidable. I am more accustomed to moving other pieces. That is the sure way: observe and touch at a distance. Until this moment, there was much to be learned even by simple correspondence games. And then a whispered word or the gift of a bit of knowledge… that is the way to do it, I think." But rather than assertive, Meldh's words were hopeful.

"You are powerful and wise, and more than capable," offered Nell, who had been quiet during this exchange. "And you would have all of our support. You are the master of the Touch - it was you who reshaped the pyromancer we employed in our first attempt to curtail the boy, and neither of us could have done it better. If any of us must take control -" (and her tone left no doubt that it was as good as settled) "-then it can be no other but you."

"We cannot wait and attempt influence by less immediate means. New devices appear every month. The risk is untenable," said the second figure.

"I understand," said Meldh, slowly.

The second figure spoke reassuringly. "The Mirror, late of Atlantis, proves to be the means by which the Tower has escaped us." Meldh and Nell both moved slightly, and had they visible faces rather than fractal shadow, surprise might have been evident there. "It is being used in a manner that is crude but effective - a single realm of the boy's choosing, with passage left unspecified. All may enter, and all are subject to its strictures… but it is another world, out of reach. When you do this, it will be yours, along with the Stone of the Long Song."

Nell turned sharply at this, saying, "But -"

"His," affirmed the second figure, and Nell fell silent.

"Very well," said Meldh. "But we will act with completeness, then. We have our pawns in the goblins - rouse them. And a secondary line within Britain. If I am to personally intervene, then I require everything we can bring to bear. If we succeed, I will not begrudge whatever extra time is necessary afterwards to hide our hand."

The other two agreed, solemnly, and for some time they discussed the ways in which they would ready themselves. Eventually, they departed the realm of nightmare-stuff. The dark shore was once more unpeopled, and only a gaunt's lost wail within the wind was left to suggest it had ever been otherwise.

Tír inna n-Óc endured.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_John Snow Center for Medicine and Tower School of Doubt (The Tower)_

"Okay then," said Harry Potter-Evans-Verres, Dean of the Science Program at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, head of the Tower School of Doubt, key advisor to a series of expendable Ministers for Magic, chief architect behind the development of entire new fields of wizardry, and guiding hand behind the course of the world. "I would like someone to seriously explain to me why we are calling them sfaironauts, and why I can't change it."

There was a series of groans from around the table. Cedric Diggory crumpled up a wad of parchment and threw it at Harry, while Amelia Bones and Alastor Moody gave each other despairing glances. Draco Malfoy looked annoyed, Percy Weasley looked uncomfortable, and Luna Lovegood probably would have looked bored if she had been paying attention (she was thinking about fish). Reg Hig didn't react at all, only glancing up from the stack of parchments in front of him.

"I would like to discuss Bellatrix Black," said Bones, folding her hands in front of her on the meeting room table.

Harry sighed, and appeared to resign himself. "What about her?"

"Alastor and I agree that she cannot remain in Nurmengard. It's not secure enough," Bones said, glancing over at Moody. The handsome young man said nothing, but his roving eye - now back where it belonged, after long hiatus - whipped around to fix itself on the youthful Supreme Mugwump. "It has taken fully a week and an entire dedicated staff to begin to engage her mind, and we are nowhere near the depth of penetration necessary to extract secrets or spells from her, but recent events are a different thing. She has seen, well…" Bones trailed off, pursing her lips.

"Her mind is nastier than a Hungarian Horntail and twice as dangerous," said Moody, finally. "It's like she's taken an Unbreakable Vow to fight all intrusions into her brain." He paused, and his eye spun in his head. "Not a bad idea, actually."

Harry shook his head. "If you're looking to move her somewhere more secure than Nurmengard, the obvious question is: why is there anywhere more secure than Nurmengard? Whatever you're doing better in that other place, do it at Nurmengard, too."

"I maintain that we're being short-sighted about her, Potter," said Draco, frowning. Cedric nodded in agreement with the blond boy, paused as though he'd realized what he was doing, and then turned his attention back to Harry.

"The ticking 'blastbomb' scenario?" Harry asked, rubbing his forehead. "Look, we've spent years and years trying to heal people in St. Mungo's with severe mental trauma, and so have Muggle doctors. It's possible there are some things that can be done to the brain that can't be fully recovered, not really. If Bellatrix Black's mind has been… well, made into some sort of maze, then it will just take a bit longer to get what we need from her. We're not going to tear it free and damage her, not if it could leave her beyond repair." He looked around the table, but too many faces were skeptical. "If Hermione were here, or one of the Returned, they'd agree with me. 'Save one life,' remember?"

"This 'one life' might be risking that 'whole world,' Potter. You wouldn't hesitate to kill her in battle if it was necessary to save the lives of others. This is the same thing. The fact that it's just less pretty and less obvious doesn't make it any less true," said Draco. "Does anyone here doubt that she is going to suddenly disappear from her holding cell, and in six months we'll be facing her and two hundred wereknarls or whatever?"

Cedric shook his head at that and held up his hand. "No, no, please let's not get back into the 'sick or evil' discussion. Let's keep it on Nurmengard for a moment." He looked back over at Moody. "Our people posted there have been doubled. She has two decoys, one of whom is _herself _convinced she is Bellatrix Black. And there's probably at least two other plans in place that I don't even know about, despite one ordinarily thinking the head of the DMLE _might _rate inclusion on all of that sort of thing. And of course, beyond all that, it's still Nurmengard: one of the most secure places in the world. Where could you possibly move her?"

"Here," said Moody.

"It's-" began Draco, but Moody cut him off.

"The magics that Dumbledore left to help you build this place can't be replicated elsewhere," lied the head of security, smoothly. "Dumbledore's rituals prevent scrying and prevent intrusion - they even make the Killing Curse as dangerous as buttermilk so long as you're in the Tower. But we can't do it in other places, yet. No place can be made as secure as the Tower. If you're going to insist on soft-shoeing the interrogation process, then she needs to come here. We'll expand - new wing in the back. You wanted that anyway."

"I did. And it will give us an opportunity to keep working with her, and maybe keep her mind intact. I don't know if she can become a fully-functional person at this point," said Harry, unwilling to be turned to the new topic. His voice was cool with anger as he continued, "but it's possible, especially on a long enough timeline. It's also possible that kicking her brains apart to get inside of them is something that might have permanent consequences, no matter how long the timeline." He glanced over at Draco, lips tight. "And killing is when you have no alternative. We have an alternative, so we're taking it."

"And if she wasn't alone? How about the 'Three?'" said Draco, cool as well. "If they exist, and they're not just an obvious bit of misinformation from one rogue American," he continued, ignoring Hig's abrupt attention and sharp glare, "then they might have had a hand in this. They, and not Voldemort, might have been the source of this, ah, 'Multi-Form Ritual.'"

"It wasn't Voldemort, and so that leaves Limpel Tineagar or the Three as the likely source," said Harry, firmly. When Cedric gave him a skeptical look, he tapped the lightning-bolt scar on his forehead. "I know it wasn't him." Cedric nodded, acceptingly and with a hint of sympathy on his face.

"Then can we risk them intervening? Surely we need to know about them _now_," said Draco, pushing his point home by rapping the table sharply with his knuckles.

"'Save one life,'" said Harry again, shaking his head.

"How about saving more than one, instead?" retorted Draco. "How about saving all the lives we lose if we wait too long, or open ourselves up for another attack? How many people were lost to the time lock Bellatrix cast when she attacked? How many of her werewolf soldiers are still alive and sane?"

"If you start maiming minds because it's convenient," said Bones, frowning, "then I begin to wonder what we're fighting to protect. Let's not go down the path of the 'greater good,' if possible. It has an ugly history." Moody again said nothing, although he clearly favoured Draco's way of thinking.

"If we can just resolve the matter of Nurmengard, as Mr. Diggory suggested?" broke in Percy, tapping a finger on a parchment in front of him.

"Right, then," said Harry swiftly. "We'll expand. Alastor is right, we were going to do it anyway. I'll be glad of the greater leg-room, too. Unless there's an objection?"

There was none.

"How will we do the transfer?" asked Cedric.

Moody's eye wobbled over to point at him. "I'll be in touch."

"Will Ms. Granger be assisting? I think that would make us all feel better," said Percy, with an apologetic glance at Cedric.

"No argument here," agreed Cedric, with a broad smile. "But I understand she's at Powis for the time being. She deserves the downtime."

"She's as likely as most to work out how that ritual works, and better than anyone to actually try it," said Moody. "So I _hope_ she's not just resting and scourging blood out of her sleeve."

This was a rather more grim note than Moody had perhaps intended, and there was an awkward pause. Draco shot him an annoyed glare, and Percy looked a little pale.

"Don't forget," Harry said, gently, "that her sleeve was still bloody when she began trying to heal that Bellatrix."

"Mm," grunted Moody. "Shame the ritual ran its course. If it had been permanent," he said, and his eye whipped around to regard Harry, accusingly, "then we'd have two of them to interrogate."

Harry ignored him. They'd had this discussion several times already, and he expected it to become a common one (not just in the Tower, but among humanity). What are the ethics of creating new sentient beings, when you knew they faced an uncertain or unpleasant end?

"It would be helpful to be able to send Ms. Granger to China, I think, when she has had her rest," said Bones, interrupting Harry's train of thought. There was the slightest hint of judgment in her tone. "Now that the recent conflict has been, er, resolved-" and she gave Draco an ambiguously intent glance "-she can begin representing the Treaty once more."

Draco smiled, and raised a finger, as if in reminder.

"The Treaty for Health and Independence," Bones said with a heavy air.

Hig lowered the parchment he'd been reading, and turned to stare at Draco with his little dark eyes. He let his gaze linger for a moment in warning, and then it broke into warmth and a pleasant smile. "Health and Independence indeed… and more importantly, an end to all the unpleasantness of recent years." He turned his attention to Bones. "I concur with you. The Goddess is far and away the best envoy we could send. I don't think the outcome is in doubt, now that Russia, the Sawad, New Zealand, and the Caucuses are all with us - and now that all the concessions they demanded are in place. But don't forget Cappadocia… they're still out of the fold. A bad example. We need the best envoy to ensure that China or Thailand don't try to forge their own way."

"Or we could bring Cappadocia in," suggested Draco.

"Oh good," commented Cedric. "I was just saying to myself, 'I sure hope we repeat the same arguments every single time we meet, oh Merlin, am I glad we've gotten so much blonder around here.'"

Bones cut in over Cedric's sarcasm. "I agree with Councilor Hig."

"Myself as well," said Percy.

"After she takes the time she needs," said Moody, roughly.

"Measured thrust will be easier if we use something similar to those goblins chargers," said Luna, nodding, as though her words were somehow germane to the conversation.

The discussion hiccuped around her interjection.

"So do we wait until she feels ready, or should I go and see how she's doing?" asked Cedric, hopefully.

"The goblins haven't been able to come in to Material Methods for several weeks - something political going on in Ackle, according to Urg. Preparing for a major meeting of the Urgod Ur, I think," said Harry, seizing on Luna's words. "But we can prototype something on a smaller scale in the meantime."

Bones gave Harry a despairing look, then glanced back at Cedric. "No, the 'Goddess' is diligent enough, as you well know. She'll be back when she's ready."

"Let's pick this back up tomorrow," said Hig, smiling indulgently and gesturing at Harry. "Other things are pressing, clearly."

"Harry?" said Moody, leaning forward.

"Unless Percy has something else?" said Harry, rising from his seat.

"No, sir," said Percy. He was smiling. "It looks like everything is working out."

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_The propaganda agents of the Tower have been toiling away in rotten old England, trying to convince you that the Walpurgis Night War was a resounding victory for the forces of meddling and the armies of colonialism. But thankfully, they protest too much._

_In reality, events since that night, when the world teetered on the brink of destruction, have proven to be far more favorable to the Independents and their British counterparts, the Honourable. The leader of the Honourable and one of the voices of the Independence movement, Lord Draco Malfoy of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Malfoy, was only barely able to keep a smile of satisfaction off of his face when interviewed at Siegfried's this past week. "Virtually all of our demands have been met," Malfoy said to this reporter over a Muggle meal of squid-ink pizza and cranberry foam, "and we are very happy with the changes to the Treaty for Health and Life."_

_When asked about concessions, the handsome young nobleman was more coy. "The negotiators for the Independents, who kindly invited me along, did have to give up some things in negotiation, of course. I understand that Russia has reluctantly agreed to contribute their own aurors to help protect the Tower. Thankfully, that will also let them keep a close eye on it," said Lord Malfoy, with a twinkle in his eye._

_The Honourable leader conceded that he would be ending publication of his long-running journal _Unbreakable Honour_, due to new responsibilities. "I understand that the Thunderer and several of the Emirati Councils insisted on having representation within the Tower, if their people were going to be expected to cooperate. A reasonable request. But to my surprise, they thought my long… association with Harry Potter would make me the best person to keep an eye on things in some sort of executive capacity." Lord Malfoy did not appear to be unhappy at the prospect of exercising oversight on his old schoolyard rival._

_A representative of the Tower has called the outcome of negotiations between the two treaty organizations an "equitable outcome." But the results would appear to be markedly in favor of the Independents, regardless of the spin you might be hearing._

-Excerpted from "A New Age," by Sylvia de Kamp in _American Mage_.


	40. Science

_John Snow Center for Medicine and Tower School of Doubt (The Tower)_

_October 3rd, 1998_

"Mr. Abercrombie, Ms. Ryan. How can I help you?" asked the dean, glancing at his wristwatch. "It must be important if you've come to see me during my office hours this week."

Visiting the dean was relatively simple, but annoyingly tedious: you simply pinned a note to the front of your robes about office hours, then snapped a Safety Stick. Few students ever bothered, especially considering how intimidating the former prodigy and current magical titan could be. His inaugural speech to the Science Program students hadn't been especially impressive - a great deal of fuss about a "pale blue dot" - but some of the new students in the Program had felt faint just from being in the Tower and in such proximity to the great man. Craig Abercrombie and Siobhan Ryan thought this visit was necessary, however.

As usual, every team in their year of the Science Program had been given their project on Sunday. In this instance, each trio of students was handed a small brown box containing the broken shards of a vase and a small card of information. Craig, Siobhan, and Perry Paderau got a box full of white-glazed pieces decorated with delicate designs in blue and green. The card had informed them that this was formerly an Art Nouveau vase created by Leon Solon, and told them that they were required to "repair the vase" without magic. _You may use magic in any way you please during the process, as long as no spell directly touches or affects the pieces of the vase. Points will be awarded based on the completeness of the restoration, overall aesthetic effect, and creativity._

"Well, sir, it's just got to be Muggle glue, right?" said Craig. "Nothing else you can do. Not much of a challenge. We were wondering if you might talk to Professor Syracuse about it, and get him to change it a bit."

"I suggested this assignment, actually," said Dean of the Science Program Harry Potter-Evans-Verres. He leaned back in his chair behind the huge wooden table, adjusting his glasses, and gestured at a pile of books at one end of the table. Craig recognized some of the textbooks from the science program and several books on pottery styles and history, along with a handful of note-filled parchments.

There was a brief pause as the two students absorbed this information, then Siobhan spoke up. "Sir, I'm not sure it fits with some of the other projects we've done. They all needed… well, you had to think about them. This will just be… tedious. Gluing things together."

"Don't underestimate the value of patience, Ms. Ryan," said the dean. "Having the fortitude to do something annoying and fiddly is a key aspect of good science." He pushed himself back from the big table, and stood up, gesturing vaguely. "A few rooms away is a project I've been working on for _years_, trying minor variations on the same thing over and over again to try to find the exact shielding that will work for my purposes. And I'll probably keep working at it tomorrow, and next week, and so on. If you've decided on a way to complete your project, don't quit just because it seems tedious. Most worthwhile things are tedious at some point, so you should get used to tedium… as long as it's for a good purpose, and not just busywork."

"This is just different than Professor Syracuse's previous assignments, that's all," said Siobhan.

Craig nodded in agreement, and then his face lit up. "There was something about this sort of thing in one of our books…"

He walked over to the pile of books and notes that the dean had indicated. He leafed through them until he found what he was looking for: a copy of _Surely You're Joking, Mr. Feynman!_ Craig opened it and began flipping through it, rapidly.

Some of the previous weekly projects from the Professor of Engineering had been:

_-Construct a way to view a basilisk with sufficient clarity that it could be effectively fought. Any means allowed, Muggle or magical._ Entries included glasses with mirrors built into them, blindfolds enchanted with _vitalis revelio_, a purchased pair of Muggle night-vision goggles, and a simple piece of parchment inscribed with the words, "Use the Killing Curse and then view it as much as you want."

_-Build upon last week's work studying Muggle agriculture, and suggest a new way to improve it in a well-structured essay. No minimum number of inches. _Answers were almost universally centered around either the use of magical creatures (interbreeding, pest control, etc.) or the production of fresh water (wide-scale weather management, enchanted salt-water filters, etc.) The most successful team pointed out that simply using Vanishing Rooms would result in the biggest improvement to Muggle agriculture, eliminating all the problems of preservation and transportation.

_-Go to the northeast corridor, take the second stairwell, go left down the hall, and enter the eighteenth room on the left. Once the door locks behind you, your team will have one hour to escape. You may not use your wands. You may bring anything else with you that you wish. _Students brought lockpicks enchanted with flawless function, battering rams transfigured to a small size, bottles of magical fire or Bundimun acid, and other things. Most plans had needed to be altered somewhat after the door vanished.

_-This is a Muggle device known as a "mousetrap," used in place of the Vermexous Charm. It is missing the spring which would normally power it with mechanical energy. Make it work. Points will be awarded based on the effectiveness of the trap on a living mouse and creativity. _Most teams succeeded to get the trap to work, replacing the spring with twisted rope or other solutions. The two winning teams, however, found more innovative approaches. One team had put a lump of poisoned bait on the trap and ignored the device's original purpose. The other had tied the broken mousetrap to the back of a hungry kneazle.

_-Write an essay in three parts: (1) Where is an example of the Pareto Principle at work within Hogwarts? (2) Where can you find an example of the normal distribution in Hogwarts? (3) Identify a place where you would normally expect to find an example of either concept, even though it is not present. No minimum number of inches._

_-Golden Snitches have been immobilized and hidden throughout the fifth floor. Find any Snitch, but remember that most sensory spells will not be effective. Do not go past the mungbeans or you will certainly become lost. _Only two teams had won. The first had gone and purchased a new Golden Snitch in Hogsmeade, pointing out that the rules didn't state _which_ Snitch they needed to find. The other had researched the history of Quidditch's most famous cheaters and found a little-known fifteenth-century charm to divine the location of a Snitch. It used a distinctive wand motion. The following month, the Seeker for the Slough Sizzlers was fined a hundred Galleons and barred from competition.

After a moment of searching through the book, Craig had found the part he wanted.

"Sir, remember when Mr. Feynman goes to Brasilia and talks to them about what they do with their science education?" Dean Potter nodded; it was one of the more famous parts of the book. "Well, sir, Mr. Feynman says they have to choose a way because of 'a good reason, a sensible reason; not just because other countries do.' " The student tapped the spot in the book.

"Yes, Mr. Abercrombie. But I assure you, we're not doing this project just because other engineering classes do it this way." The dean smiled indulgently, and the expression paradoxically made him look very young. He was only a few years older than them, after all.

"Yes, sir, but maybe you're assigning this project because you're doing the sort of thing you think that Mr. Feynman would do?" said Craig, questioningly. He closed the book and set it back down with the rest.

Siobhan frowned, shaking her head. "Well, I don't know if that's it, Craig. I just thought..."

"It's a good point," said the dean, looking thoughtful. "When I was younger, I spent quite a bit of time feeling frustrated with my teachers, and wishing I had a truly talented and creative tutor. I wasn't quite prepared when I got my wish." He fell quiet for a moment, and the students waited, a bit impatient despite their awe. The dean was either referring to Albus Dumbledore or David Monroe, and it was a dramatic reminder of how close they were to history… but they still wanted to leave as soon as possible.

"I'll think about it," said the dean. "And before I give any more suggestions to Professor Syracuse, I'll write out some clear lesson objectives. Cleverness isn't a substitute for pedagogy, I suppose."

"Thank you, sir," said Craig and Siobhan, just slightly out of unison. They seemed discomfited by the end of the conversation; Craig was tugging at his robes nervously and Siobhan was visibly sweating. They left without another word.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

The ensuing week was relatively normal - or what passed for normal in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry's Science Program, which was not known for its normality. The lower-form students (in their first two years of the Program) scurried in small packs from one class to another, learning the rudiments of seven core subjects and one elective. The upper-form students spent their time with fewer professors, studying the rudiments of a few branches of science and doing labs. It was a ruthlessly intense program, and more than half of the students quit during their first year.

Professor Syracuse's afternoon class on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays was a group of fourth-years. They had a swagger about them: they'd survived three years of a course of study that was already legendary for its difficulty, surpassing even the Salem Witches' Institute's "Trial by Fire" graduate school of languages. In another year, they'd be choosing independent courses of study in magical science in the School of Doubt, working with Tower or Unspeakable researchers - or even just beginning careers, if they wanted. They would be the third graduating class of the Science Program, and they were on top of the world.

Truth be told, the swagger in these fourth-years might explain why Professor Santo Syracuse agreed so readily to the vase project when it was suggested by Dean Potter-Evans-Verres. Such an assignment had good prospects for teaching some arrogant teenagers a little humility.

"Sit down, sit down," snapped Professor Syracuse. "Paderau! You heard me! Sit down and be quiet! We have no time for your nonsense - the ladies aren't impressed. If you want to impress them, learn your equations."

The boy in question stood up from where he'd been crouched between two witches and walked around their station back towards his own in the back, wearing an expression of aggrieved innocence. He sat down between Siobhan and Craig, making as much noise as possible as he settled his elbows on the high table and his rear on the stool. His partners exchanged a look of annoyance behind his back.

Professor Syracuse watched him intently for a moment to be sure that the admonishment had been effective, then brightened as he turned to the class as a whole. He was a thin man of average height, and gloriously bald, with a shiny pink scalp and a mouth that twitched from side to side when he was excited. He was often excited.

"Today we'll spend the first hour on project presentation, and then after the break we'll be doing more work on friction," the professor said, rubbing his hands together in anticipation and illustration. "We'll try to hammer at least a few basic principles into you, so that you're only woefully ignorant, and not completely ignorant. It will be a rich, full day." He waggled his eyebrows in anticipation. "Okay! Get out your projects - whatever you have, get it out, even if it's just your notes! You can put your binders away for now. _Do not_ spill your flobberworm mucus or murtlap essence, or you will be cleaning _everyone's_ station at the end of the afternoon."

There was some shuffling and murmuring as people got themselves sorted, taking out whatever their team had managed to complete that week. All six of the teams appeared to have put together something in order to repair the vase, but as everyone looked around, they saw a variety of solutions.

"What did we get done, guys?" Perry Paderau asked the other two, in a hushed voice.

" 'We' didn't get anything done… _Craig and I_ did finish something, though," answered Siobhan, annoyed. She was arranging a closed box in front of herself, carefully.

"Don't be that way, Ryan… it's been crazy this past week," said Perry, frowning. "My dad wants me to come work for him when we get done this year, and so I've been trying to get some extra help from Professor Sprout in the evenings." Perry's father grew Sopophorous beans for export.

"You didn't do anything, you just let Siobhan and I do it, and now you're going to take credit," said Craig, irritably.

Perry turned to him, and spoke in a harsh whisper, "Hey, you're not the one who's expected to spend the rest of his life with baskets of Mooncalf dung and a pair of silver scissors, okay? Do you know how _often_ you need to sharpen silver scissors?" He scowled. "I did all the work to get us out of that room last month, when the door vanished, so have some mercy, will you?"

"This is the only time," said Siobhan.

"Fine!" said Perry, a bit too loudly.

"Quiet over there!" said Professor Syracuse, darting his gaze at their team. He frowned. "Again, Paderau? One point from Ravenclaw!" Perry groaned and slumped forward on the table. "Okay, first team… Jess, Raphael, Sally… what do you have?"

Two boys and a girl rose from their stools and walked awkwardly to the front table. They set a vase down, carefully, as well as two small bowls. The vase was small, brown, and extremely plain.

"Our solution was simple. We had a broken vase, and we needed to make a working vase - to 'repair' it. So it seemed to us like the best thing would be to just make a new vase, rather than trying to remake the old one." She gestured at the table, and one of her teammates dipped his fingers into one of the small bowls, lifting out a palmful of brown powder. "We took the pieces of the original vase and ground them down into dust. Then we took that dust," she gestured again, and another teammate displayed a handful of dark clay, "and we added water, turning it back into clay. We didn't use any magic on the pieces, before or after we ground them down. We didn't even use _Aguamenti_ to create the water - we just used the tap." She sounded very proud.

"Then," she said, gesturing at the brown pot, "we made a pot, and asked a house elf to put it in the kilns for us the next time they fired something. We got it back this morning, and here is the pot: clean and new, and in one piece."

The professor approached the front table, frowning. "Full marks for creativity, and I supposed this is a 'complete restoration.' " He picked up their pot, and examined it. "I am actually surprised that this worked. I wouldn't have thought that you'd be able to grind the it down and then just re-fire it. The glassification… hmm…"

Professor Syracuse drew his wand and tapped the side of the pot twice, saying, "_Aparecium_." The pot and the bowl of clay changed color - very slightly, tinting itself just a bit pink. The bowl of powder, on the other hand, turned red. The professor turned to regard the trio of students, eyebrow raised. "Oddly, very little of the invisible dye seems to have found its way into your new pot… almost as though you just mixed a little in with new clay, after discovering that your plan wouldn't work."

They muttered some excuses, but the professor was already waving them back to their seats. "If you want to remedy your low score today, then I'd suggest you each write me thirteen inches on why you think your plan didn't work, and what you should have done instead. I'd also suggest availing yourself of the library, this time around. If you'd done even a bit of research - or if you'd been paying attention when we discussed ceramics - you'd have known about why this wouldn't work."

Professor Syracuse turned back to the class. "Next."

The next two teams had simply glued the vase back together. One of the teams had done much better than the other, and had clearly taken the time to choose a specific kind of glue and practice, while the other team's vase had small chips missing and beaded lines of overflow dried along the seams. It even leaned a bit to the side.

Professor Syracuse commented on patience and conscientiousness as each team presented their work. The team that would go last watched in dismay, since it was obvious to everyone in the room that they had done the worst job - their glue didn't even look dry. One of them muttered a charm under their breath, and tried to subtly position their box so that it hid her efforts to use the warming spell on her work.

"Next."

The fourth team had tried hard for the "creative" and "aesthetics" points as a strategy, and had used the pieces of their broken vase as a mosaic on the outside of a different vase, breaking them into even smaller fragments and arranging them in an attractive pattern. They held up drawings they'd copied from a book with a Quarto Quickening Quill from Queevel's, showing different examples of mosaics in art around the world, as well as a large diagram indicating the best way to fit the pieces and stick them in place. They were a very thorough group, and the class was just lucky that they hadn't had time to make a diorama of a Pompeiian antechamber. They looked to be leading the class this week, easily.

"Next," said the professor, gesturing at Craig, Siobhan, and Perry.

The three of them got up. Siobhan carried the box with their project in it. She set it down, stood in front of it, and took out the vase. The white vase stood tall, and patterns of blue meshed with patterns of green on its surface. All of the pieces had been placed neatly where they belonged, but despite this care, the seams were clearly visible. Indeed, they gleamed with gold. Thick lines of the metal traced the joints between each piece. It was ostentatious, calling attention to the damage rather than trying to hide it.

Perry looked horrified. "This looks like we went mad," he hissed to Siobhan.

"_Shut up_," she whispered back, fiercely.

"We wanted to do a technique from Japan called 'kintsugi.' It's a traditional Japanese craft, and part of an approach that doesn't try to hide the history of a piece of broken ceramic, but instead make that history part of the visible story of the piece," Craig said, sounding a bit wooden and rehearsed. "We couldn't find a shop that sold the sort of lacquer that would work, which comes from a special tree, so we experimented with different things - potions and some goop from a Doxy nest and that sort of thing that we thought might work."

"This is Skele-Grow, reduced by half," said Siobhan, and she carefully lifted the pot and held it up. "We added a tiny bit of bone to activate it, and dusted it with some powdered gold. Not a lot, and it turns out to be cheaper than you'd think -"

"Because it's very ductile, so it can be made extremely thin," interrupted Perry, smiling as he was won over.

"...and so our receipts still only total up to about five Sickles," finished Siobhan, after an annoyed glance at Perry.

"Wonderful!" exclaimed Professor Syracuse, looking positively delighted. "It looks beautiful - and it shows not just creativity, but real scholarship. This is actually - my goodness - this is actually something specifically mentioned to me by the dean when we discussed this project! He is quite a Japanophile, in fact, and we discussed the _wabi-sabi_ aesthetic in particular!" The professor shook his head, marveling. "I know we don't have _any _books on the topic… how exactly did you learn about this technique?"

"Ah, well," said Craig, thinking about the notes on the table in the Tower that he'd read while looking for the Feynman book. "We remembered what you said about 'social engineering'... it's easier if you start with half the solution."

The top sheet had read:

_Santo, one final thought on my suggested assignment for next week:_

_I don't want to step on your toes, or make you feel like you have to give this. We promised you broad discretion when Minerva first came to you about your position in Killarney, and that hasn't changed. This is just an idea I thought would be fun. The idea here isn't just to make it difficult or tedious, since students will encounter enough of that without our help. But we're giving them only the rudiments of a scientific education here… I want to challenge them as much as possible. I mentioned kintsugi to you as one possible solution to the project, but it's also a metaphor for the wizarding world. You're a Muggleborn, and you were ostracized for relying on Muggle science for your research on mermaids and evolution, so you know what we're up against as we try to change society. These students are golden, but we have to make them strong... so they can hold together a broken world._

_-H_

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_I think it goes back to my high school days. In computer class, the first assignment was to write a program to print the first 100 Fibonacci numbers. Instead, I wrote a program that would steal passwords of students. My teacher gave me an A._

-Kevin Mitnick


	41. Mascon

_300 miles above the Earth_

_May 16th, 1999_

_Now _

"Pocket is away," Basil Horton said into the radio. He folded the controls to the waldo back into the wall, and the sturdy little arm, moved by the Protean Charm to mimic the movement of the controls, collapsed against the outside of the ship, out of sight beneath the viewport. He watched the satellite, freed of the waldo's grip, float away. "Floating free of the ship - I don't see any problems."

He waited for a response, squinting at the Muggle device, irritably. There was none. Scowling, Basil got to his knees in the small space between the pilot's seat and the wall, pushed down by the ship's inverted floating charm, and tapped the bulky black radio box. _Probably waited until now to give up the ghost. Would be typical. Everything works fine until the very moment it becomes important._

He tapped the microphone on the headset again, and repeated the message. There was still no response… just the quiet crackles or hissing. At least it had electricity, and the speaker still seemed to be working. Basil cursed the very name of Marconi and got back to his feet, stooping significantly. He was a big man with an athletic build, even if he'd gotten a bit soft around the middle in recent years, and he couldn't stand comfortably in the ship without rapping his head against the smooth goblin-silver ceiling.

The entire ship was ridiculous, really… just a big silver ball. When that Ronnie Weasley boy had taken the first trip up, everyone had been all agog about "making history" and claptrap like that. The ginger idiot had the biggest, stupidest grin that Basil had ever seen when he got into the ship, and called out some Russian word before they closed the hatch - sounded like "Poor you kal" or some nonsense.

Should he get out the spare, or the repair kit? He could fix the damn thing, he knew… it was one of seventeen Muggle devices that they'd trained him to repair (sitting in a desk in some miserable little Muggle classroom like a wandless nitwit). Maybe something was wrong on the RCP's end, instead.

Basil tugged gently at the lead coming out of the back of the radio, to see if it had come loose on either end. The gobbos had needed to bore a small hole through the surface of the sphere, so that the Tower could slap an antenna along the outside, after discovering that the ship became more and more radio-impenetrable by the day. Had that lead gotten loose outside, or had one of the seals fouled it up somehow? Could the seals strangle off the flow of the signal, somehow? Basil considered. He didn't think so.

Annoyed, he turned and peered out the viewport. The brown satchel of the pocket world was visible, securely fixed to a Mitsubishi platform and surrounded by the white plastic Leaf spheres that protected the electronic sensors, thrusters, and other Muggle components. It seemed to be unharmed, but it also wasn't adjusting its attitude or showing any other signs that the staff at the RCP had taken control. They didn't seem to have heard him; they were still waiting to hear that the pocket was clear.

Maybe the radio had died - killed by a nearby enchantment or his own spells? There should have been enough Leaf inside the casing to protect it, absorbing ambient magic and preventing the accompanying electromagnetic interference, but the ship had been put into orbit with the Vanishing Cabinet on the _Monroe_, their first satellite… that could have been too much magic for the radio to endure.

Basil thought about the Tower's words when they'd been talking about possible equipment failures and the necessary redundancies. "My father always says that firm percussive maintenance is part of any good troubleshooting toolkit," the young man had said - speaking in that way he had, both patronizing and making an annoying show of being considerate. Hard to believe that everyone in the Ministry fell all over themselves to try to please the kid… in Basil's opinion, Potter had just been lucky in his friends. He was riding back-broom after the Goddess, holding onto her coat-tails. Someday soon, she'd take over, and Potter would be put in his place.

"Basil? Are you clear of the pocket? We have its camera, now, but we don't see you," buzzed the radio, and not even the crackle of static could hide the sweetness of Dolores Umbridge's voice. Basil smiled, then leaned over and gave the radio a single good thump with the palm of his hand. It squealed and fell completely silent. _Bugger._

He took another glance out at the pocket world, which was floating further and further away, and then sighed heavily. _Merlin's nose, there's nothing for it but to get to it… Muggle junk._ Basil opened the supply kit and found the pouch labeled "A6," and began the process of getting out the backup radio (bulkier with even more Lovegood Leaf to shield its components) and connecting it to the antenna lead. He should have enough time to try broadcasting. If it didn't work, he'd use the Vanishing Cabinet and a Quotes Quill, however clunky that solution might be. He wished the bubblers had enough range that they could just use them, or that they'd hurry up in the Vision Verge and get some other magical solution.

After almost fifteen minutes of laborious fiddling, Basil shoved the broken radio into the pouch and grabbed the headset of the new one, turning the frequency knob until the display showed the correct number. "Hullo… Dolores, am I transmitting?"

"Basil!" said Umbridge. "We were worried," she cooed. "Everything all right?" He could picture her as she spoke, that curvy beauty. Basil grinned.

"Fine, fine. Pocket is away and I'm well clear. Bit of trouble with this Muggle junk, but I've sorted it out," he said into the radio.

"Well done, Basil," Umbridge said, sounding a bit tinny over the radio - but still sweet. "We're getting a good connection with the pocket. Keep an eye on it, wouldn't you?"

Basil shifted around the pilot's seat and sat down in it, radio still in hand. He rested his free palm on one of his guidance sticks. "Of course, madame." He willed the stick to move - as though he were flying a broomstick, funny enough - and the ship shifted slightly so that he had a clear view of the satellite.

He watched as one and then another of the thrusters fired in short bursts, and the satchel-carrying satellite, with its completely mental marriage of Muggle and magical materiel, moved gradually… presumably, finding a stable orbit.

The radio crackled. "Everything looks good on our end. How is it up there? Are you receiving still?"

"Five by five," Basil replied with a touch of irony, and smiled as Umbridge tittered. "Yes, everything looks good." He watched as the satellite slowly spun in place, and settled back a little into his seat.

The whole thing was truly remarkable, he had to admit. He never would have dreamed of this sort of thing when he was a younger man - it was more than impossible, it was inconceivable - beyond what he could have imagined. But these days… well, everything was speeding up and there were new ideas and new devices every week, it seemed. Anything seemed possible in a world where _Muggles_ could fly beyond the end of the air. Basil and most everyone else might poke fun at the antics of the Muggles and their crude, fragile world… but they'd lain down there in the mud and looked up at the stars, and reached for them. It was inspiring, really.

After the satellite was safely in orbit, floating precisely where it should be, according to its onboard sensors and the tracking data they were collecting in the increasingly well-staffed RCP, Basil stayed in position for some time. He stared out at the steady dots of light that were scattered in the black like glittering alchemist's sand.

Basil knew the plans - what they wanted to do. What the Tower wanted. He wanted to send wizards out there… out among those stars.

It had started small - sending up the _Monroe_ with its onboard Vanishing Cabinet, and sending the goblin-silver ship through that Cabinet, carrying a Weasley, for a test run of twelve minutes. Half of the onboard equipment had failed and one of the seams on the viewscreen had leaked, but Weasley had come through it unharmed. He'd made another trip three days later with new equipment shielded against ambient magic. Basil went out the next week, and by now between the two of them they had nearly twenty hours of flight-time.

And now they had the pocket world - the "slicebox world," as some called it - in orbit as well. After testing its stability, they'd be bringing out the airlock chamber in pieces from the _Monroe_ and locking it on outside of that brown satchel. They'd pump the vast chamber full of air and put some of the more useful Transfiguration wards in place as a safeguard. Then they'd slap a high-powered, long-term, _upside-down_ Floating Charm on the whole giant cavern to float everything towards the "ground," just like the ship Basil was in. It would be its own little world.

There would be a lot of testing, of course. Basil was friendly with one of the gobbos - good bloke, even if he was a Puddlemere supporter - who had told him that the Tower already had some of the people in Material Methods working on a way to transport huge amounts of soil and water. There were even some specific sites in mind, such as some wetlands in the American South. Of course, even after they filled the big thing with dirt and water and whatever, it would still be experimental. Basil supposed they'd leave rats and flies in the pocket world for a good month before even beginning human testing, and the first planned permanent residents would be acromantulas.

But the trajectory was clear. Wizards in pocket worlds, out in space.

Basil sat there for a long time, and watched the stars.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_John Snow Center for Medicine and Tower School of Doubt (The Tower)_

_May 16th, 1999_

"Trade?" asked Harry, leaning forward on the stool. He reached over and moved the microphone away from the shiny black box. The box flickered with a pulse of reddish light as he did so.

Voldemort fell silent, the bland male voice going quiet for a few beats. Any pause was a message - surely Voldemort had already considered whether he'd be willing to trade more information, and what questions he might ask in return. A pause this long was very nearly a shout - a strong reminder that the voice in the box had leverage. Harry smiled.

"Yes," came the answer, eventually.

"You discovered the Chamber of Secrets of Salazar Slytherin. I'd like to hear about that… whatever you could share." _I'll cast a wide net, first._

"Very well. In exchange, I would like to know more about your Tower," replied Voldemort.

"Vetoed," Harry said immediately. He didn't need to think about it: he'd set some hard rules about what information he was willing to trade, and some things fell entirely out of the range of acceptable discussion. And this was spectacularly dangerous information.

Harry remembered.

"_Tell me what you can do." No answer._

"_Tell me what you are." No answer._

"_Help." No answer._

"_Root." No answer. In fairness, that one had been rather a longshot._

"_Noitlilov." And with that - at that word, which really should have been obvious, since why have any backwards-meaning runes on the device at all, honestly it didn't provide any security and just looked silly, you just needed to spent thirty seconds with a microcasette recorder to figure it out - the Mirror changed. The image of Harry and the Hogwarts room behind him vanished. In its place, the Mirror displayed _question_._

_Not the word "question," or a symbol like a question mark, or really any other visual communication. Instead, the very idea of questioning was reflected in the Mirror. This was obviously sheer semantic nonsense since an amorphous concept had no physical reality that could be represented with light, and Harry thought it was ridiculously silly. Obnoxiously, it continued to be true._

_Harry considered what he would ask of the Mirror._

"_Show me the world where the phoenixes came from." He could try to verify some of the information he already had about the Mirror, and maybe discover more about how it worked._

_Nothing happened. Still only: question._

"_Show me my extrapolated volition." Nothing._

"_Show me my coherent extrapolated volition." Nothing._

"_Noitilov detalo partxe tnere hoc." Nothing._

_Different attempts at pronunciation also had no result._

_There was only the question, staring back at him. What question? What was it asking? Voldemort had said that the Mirror was supposed to possess morality - didn't that imply intelligence? Or that it consulted some external intelligent to make moral assessments of a person or situation or request? Could every possibility have been programmed into it ahead of time? Or did it borrow intelligence or morality from the viewer somehow?_

_What was it asking?_

_Did it want to know what he wanted?_

_Harry closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. He stared intently at the Mirror and said, his voice fervent with desire, and spoke his will._

"Sorry," Harry said again, returning to the present. "Can't do it."

Within the Tower, the Killing Curse had no power to take life. Here, the human spirit clung to the flesh more tenaciously than anywhere else. It was a plane of life and possibility, accidentally discovered - or accidentally _created_ \- during those hesitant experiments with the Mirror, years ago. That secret was beyond price.

It didn't matter that Voldemort was stuck in the box. There was not even the slightest reason to risk it, and the rules of their trading game stated that Harry had absolute veto power.

"More about this box, at least -"

"Vetoed," Harry said again, interrupting.

This was easier. Harry simply didn't know much about the box. Neither did the Unspeakables. It was clearly an item of significant power, and bore every mark of being goblin-made, but the only information that the Department of Mystery had on record was that it was intended to be an unbreachable prison. Tentative investigation, carefully done to avoid piquing anyone's notice, had turned up more than a few possibilities for the box… but no definitive answer.

_Those would both obviously be off-limits,_ Harry thought. _Next will come a slightly more subtle question, which I will feel more obliged to answer. _But that didn't serve. No, it would be another level further.

"All right, then," said Voldemort. There was a tone of resignation in the voice - he had been getting more and more adept with using the magically-generated speech to convey emotion or emphasis. "Tell me about Ms. Granger, then. What have the effects of the Gattai Ritual been on her?"

Harry could see no reason to avoid this question. It seemed harmless, and was certainly something that Voldemort would be genuinely curious about.

"Vetoed," he said. Just because he couldn't spot the plot at work, or understand what Voldemort might gain, didn't mean he had to agree to the first mysterious step.

"Tell me about some new person, someone interesting," replied Voldemort, almost immediately. There was an odd warble to his last word. Harry supposed it was the artificial voice's version of "irritation."

"All right," said Harry. He felt confident he could make a harmless selection.

"You have already seen the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets - the hidden door had a mural of Salazar fighting a jötnar. We took a different passage, one of many that Salazar wove through Hogwarts and required the castle to maintain, but had we continued down the first path, we would have come to the Chamber proper. It is a large stone vault in a plain style, rather like the Tower of Mendoza, lit by a green light. I assume we would also have found the bones of a basilisk, fallen and defanged where I left it, but at the time that I first discovered the Chamber, the basilisk was very much alive and dwelling within a ludicrous statue of Salazar Slytherin himself. It ignored me, and did not look upon me, and would not speak to me despite my commands in Parseltongue." Voldemort paused. "I was a young man, then, and not as rich in lore, but I had wits enough to recognize the telltale shape of the statue's joints, and magic enough to know the minor enchantment which gave mobility to the design. All of the statues in Hogwarts have the same purpose. I could see the expected next step.

"When animated, the statue attempted to engage me in an old game of gestures which had been popular for many centuries in Salazar's time. It is a game of symbols with a vocabulary of hand-signs, combining them in sequences of three, and one attempts to back one's opponent into a position where they can take no action. It is forgotten today by all except the most learned.

"I was poor and unpracticed at the game, knowing about it only from hoary scrolls, and I swiftly lost. The basilisk ignored me when I commanded it to assist me, replying that it had ears only for victory. I played the game again with the statue, which moved its stone limbs with flawless strategy.

"Some hours later, I was finally able to win by playing the Pestle, the Dragon, and the Worm. The statue of Salazar bowed to me and returned to its former posture - arms crossed, intending to be imposing. Only then would the basilisk speak to me, asking me to produce something called the 'writ of the blood,' in preparation for the second trial." There was another pause from the box, accompanied by a buzz. Harry had heard this imitation of a sigh before. "I admit that I lost my temper, then, and acted out of turn. I cast the Killing Curse thrice in succession, deliberately missing the basilisk each time, and I made some sort of speech - the bold words of an ignorant boy, threatening and demanding in Parseltongue.

"This, too, was within the expectations of Salazar Slytherin, it would seem, for the basilisk hissed its laughter and asked me what I would know of it."

"You destroyed the basilisk, so you must have been satisfied that you'd learned everything it could teach you," Harry said. "How did that work?"

"It was a matter of some months, Mr. Potter. An intellectual game between the basilisk and myself. It was compelled to cooperate with me, but was also driven to continually assess my motives, worthiness, and will… this meant that it did not merely spill its secrets. It required things of me… further trials, and it would accept no bluffs. It was a… harrowing time. And I think that is all I will speak of it, for now."

Harry didn't press the issue, yet, by asking about specific spells or rituals. That treasure trove still existed, and had incredible value, but there was no reason to press the issue. And as far as Harry could verify, the story was true. He'd been to the Chamber of Secrets, and found only a statue and a skeleton.

"Tell me of an interesting person, then, Mr. Potter," said Voldemort.

Harry considered who would qualify as interesting while still being harmless. "All right. There is a young man named Lawrence Bradwian whom I met a few months ago. He has a prophecy about him, supposedly… he is said to be fated to 'bring down a great house.' You'd think this would result in him being shunned by everyone else with noble blood, but instead he seems to be quite popular. He's a Slytherin, but almost seems a Gryffindor… rescuing a half-giant from persecution, breaking up a Euphoric ring, and accidentally helping me recover an artifact." _One of your oldest Horcruxes, which we then destroyed_, _along with dozens of others we've found by tracing the paths of the invisible links between them with the most sensitive magic detector ever created,_ Harry thought, remembering the device Luna's team had created. "He even badly assaulted a classmate and framed him for an attack on the Tower, with the goal of becoming… I don't know, my protege or favorite? He's a Silver Slytherin, so I think he was more misguided than anything."

"And I expect you did not expel him or arrange for his removal, ensuring no large disruptions in the political scene? Instead, did you take him aside for a gentle scolding?" asked Voldemort.

"Well," said Harry, "rather more than that. But yes, I arranged for him to learn what real intrigue and danger and fear are like. I never put him in any real danger, but I think the experience might have been enough to actually change his mind. That's harder to do than one might think."

_Like when you tried with me._

"I recall. Be careful you are not being overconfident."

Harry shook his head. "He's back in his normal student role, and one of the Silver Slytherin mentors - a Tower auror - is keeping an eye on him."

"It is a disturbing thing to hear how little you have learned from your own story, Mr. Potter. Do you not think that someone in a position of power should perhaps be wary of an adventurous and precocious young man with a prophesied role in great events? Does that not, perhaps, call anything to mind?"

"The thought had occurred to me," Harry said. He felt a moment of sadness… Voldemort should be speaking in the acid tones of a sarcastic Professor Quirrell for this moment of mocking pedagogy. He paused, then asked in a natural tone, "Willing to do another trade? I'd like to hear about the Resurrection Stone, if you're willing to discuss it."

It was tempting to add a diversionary turn of phrase, such as "wherever it may be" or "if I ever got ahold of it," or the like. But in the absence of body language and nonverbal cues, Harry had to be even more careful about his phrasing to avoid revealing to Voldemort that they'd already _captured_ the Resurrection Stone, along with Bellatrix Black.

He had plans, and had uncovered some of the designs and powers of the Resurrection Stone - including some truly surprising things about the Peverell "brothers," but that didn't mean verification wouldn't be useful.

"No… I think not, Mr. Potter," replied the bland voice of Voldemort. "I know you have grand designs, and I do not object to many of them. But I will not help you in that, I think."

"Okay, Professor," said Harry, already deep in thought over his next possible question. "But let's talk about something else. Let's talk about some theories of magic. I have been doing some reading of both old and new ideas… tell me about how this theory sounds."

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_Powis Castle, Wales_

_May 16th, 1999_

"So tell me honestly, Simon: how do you think we stand, right now? There are no big threats on the horizon, and no reason not to take every bit of necessary time to make sure they're okay," Hermione said. "We can let the world wait until they're feeling better."

"Esther is quiet. She doesn't say much... it's like before. Tonks is… I don't know," said Simon. His voice sounded flat and tired, and the hollowness of his eyes was more pronounced. These had been rough weeks for everyone.

Hermione turned to Nikitas Seyhan, who was sitting quietly at the table with them. The young man had been here at Powis for months, and seemed to regard it as his natural home… certainly he appeared to have no desire to ever return back to Cappadocia. His twelve years in Göreme had wiped out most of his memories of his old life anyway. He had learned some decent English, received a new face, and grown close to his caretakers here… the people like Jessie and Simon who had looked after him, in the time since his liberation. He'd Returned, and he looked likely to stay.

"Nikitas? What do you think?" she asked him, gently.

He looked surprised that she'd ask, and after a moment began to appear almost panicked.

"It's okay, dear," Hermione said with her best reassurance, smiling. She leaned forward to put a hand on his shoulder, patting him softly. "Just take a moment and think. Esther, Hyori, and Tonks all went through a lot on Walpurgisnacht. You know them. How do you think they are doing?"

"Hyori," Nikitas said, awkwardly, "only ever just one word."

"That's normal," said Simon.

Nikitas hesitated, then went on. "Esther does not talk. Before, she talked much more." He paused again. "Tonks…" He trailed off, frowning, and finally made a pained face and shrugged, discomfited.

"It's okay," Hermione repeated, warmly. She turned back to Simon. "We take as long as we need. Get in touch with St. Mungo's… let's get some outside help. This is different from dementation."

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_Khecheopalri Village, West Sikkim, India_

_May 16th, 1999_

The mountains of Sikkim lie far to the north in India, in a region balkanized by the vagaries of history and war. They are cold and high and proud, counting the mighty peak of Kangchenjunga among their number. One of these mountains cradles the lakeside village of Khecheopalri, twenty miles away from the nearest sizable town. It is a small village, with perhaps two dozen buildings and eighty residents. Few Muggle tourists ever visit, except to see the holy lake - said to be a footprint left by Lord Shiva - and the last time a wizard came to stay was during the eighteenth century.

Even at this time of year, it is cold in Khecheopalri. When an older man left the small village temple, he traced his fingers on the surface of the bell, and found it unpleasantly cold. He pulled an old shawl closer around his shoulders, and walked off down the path away from the temple, slowly.

After some time, he reached his home. It appeared as modest as its neighbors - two rooms and a garden. A small pile of broken and discarded chhang gourds lie in one corner of the garden. The man entered the building, nodding a hello to one of his neighbors, Dorji, who was outside, trying to enjoy the warm sunshine, sheltered from the wind behind her low garden wall as she wrapped momos.

After some time, the man emerged. He went to the small wall that separated his garden from Dorji's, and addressed her politely in Sikkimese Tibetan.

"Dorji-la, I am going away on a small trip to Siliguri. I may be gone some time. I wonder if I could ask you to tend to my garden, in my absence?"

Dorji was already nodding and waving in agreement before he even finished speaking. "Yes, yes. Not a problem. We have been neighbors since I was young, and my garden and yours are one. But you go away so seldom! I hope there is no tragedy, umdze."

"No, no tragedy. Just a small matter of a property to which I must attend," said the man, smiling. "It is not a happy journey, and full of risk, but that is life."

"I hope that you have good results, umdze," Dorji said, smiling and placing another momo on the growing pile.

"Thank you. I hope so myself, as well," the man agreed, nodding solemnly.

"Let us play a game of shatranj when you return… it has been too long since you schooled me in my ignorance, umdze," she said, and returned her attention to her cooking.

"I would enjoy that," said the man. He returned inside of his home, to make preparations for leaving.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

"_And were we not saying long ago that the soul when using the body as an instrument of perception, that is to say, when using the sense of sight or hearing or some other sense (for the meaning of perceiving through the body is perceiving through the senses)—were we not saying that the soul too is then dragged by the body into the region of the changeable, and wanders and is confused; the world spins round her, and she is like a drunkard, when she touches change?"_

"_Very true."_

"_But when returning into herself she reflects, then she passes into the other world, the region of purity, and eternity, and immortality, and unchangeableness, which are her kindred, and with them she ever lives, when she is by herself and is not let or hindered; then she ceases from her erring ways, and being in communion with the unchanging is unchanging. And this state of the soul is called wisdom?"_

"_That is well and truly said, Socrates," he replied._

_Phaedo_, Plato


	42. Jagannātha

_After Ten Years of Effort, it must be admitted that ſacrifice cannot be Undone. Having ſacrificed the Life of the plant, no Power ſufficed to return that Life to it. We muſt conclude that ſome Harms are Irreparable in this Mortal Coil, and when a ſubſtance has been Unmade and its Eſſence Created into a Paſſage for Forces of Magick, then that ſubſtance is utterly Gone from this Earth. To be Otherwiſe would mean a flaw in the courſe of Time Itſelf, for that which has been Done would be Undone in the paſt. Diſaſter would come on the Heels of ſuch a remedy._

_Ruminations on the Workings of Ritual, _Bartleby Bertram

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_Powis Castle, Wales_

_May 16th, 1999_

_Two weeks after Walpurgisnacht_

It was warm outside, warmer than it had been all spring, and the Returned were watching the peacock. The bird was a brilliant blue, and it had been walking in idle circles nearby for almost ten minutes now. Several times, it had stopped and spread its plumage, its head shuddering and throat working rapidly as the great feathers rose and fanned out, their magnificent colors and Argusian spots on display. By unspoken agreement, the Returned all sat and watched quietly.

Hermione thought there was only the one peacock - or at least, she'd only ever seen one. It had shown up two years ago. Both winters since, the peacock had been seen every time the gamekeeper put out food for the many pheasant. It stood out, unique and bold and beautiful, crowded in among the dull brown game birds as it dipped its head to snatch mouthfuls of grain.

Now the bird was alone, across the clearing from where they sat on their transfigured stools and rough wooden chairs, but it seemed no less singular. It twitched its head to one side, turning to stare back at them, and rippled its feathers.

"παγώνι," whispered Nikitas. "English?"

"Peacock," replied Susie, her voice also at a hush.

Tonks sat hunched over, her legs crossed and folded hands shoved between her thighs. One foot was vibrating with agitation. Her hair was a phantasmagoria of colours: blue and greens as vivid as the peacock chased each other down individual locks, only to be swarmed with streaks of black that would then erupt into platinum blonde.

Finally she bent forward and groaned, a long and low sound. The peacock froze in place, then bobbed its head suspiciously staring in their direction. Urg rose from his seat beside her and stood next to her, as tall standing as she was sitting, so that he could put a comforting hand on her back.

Hermione called over, her voice quiet, "Tonks, are you -"

"The clouds aren't white they're all different colors like grey and blue and yellow and others," Tonks interrupted, her voice a strained and rapid whisper. "I saw a man in the alley behind Gringott's once when I was little and he put his hand on my bum and I kicked him so hard that he sat down and said oh. On the seventieth page of my seventh-year Potions textbook I used to leave a quill-end so that I could find it quickly because it had all the distilling instructions and that was hard for me. I like chipped beef on toast but only if it's hot because otherwise it reminds me of nasty things. Baby mandrakes sound like children and they scream and scream but they don't have any lungs so I don't know where does the air comes and goes."

Jessie had joined Tonks and Urg, rising from her transfigured chair and crouching down with her. She put a tight arm around the metamorphmagus' waist. "Shh, it's okay." She glanced over at Hermione, her hollow eyes worried.

The peacock lowered its feathers and moved with unhurried but purposeful steps, away from them and into the undergrowth. All the motion was making it nervous.

Tonks took a deep breath, sucking it between tight lips as though it were painful.

Esther, who was sitting closest to Hermione, whispered, "She's getting better." She glanced over at Charlevoix, as though for confirmation, and the French witch nodded her agreement.

Hermione watched Tonks for a moment before replying. "Yes. But slowly, and painfully."

"She's an Occlumens," said Esther. "We should be thankful."

Hermione nodded. They all sat for a while, waiting for Tonks to collect herself.

She'd been forced to drink a full draught of Veritaserum during the attack by Bellatrix. Fortunately, Esther had been nearby, knocked unconscious by the Killing Curse, and upon waking had been able to rush to the clinic and get a phial of antidote. Most of the truth potion was purged before Tonks could be too badly poisoned, leaving only what Harry had called "Prak syndrome" (_Life, the Universe, and Everything_, page 223, her brain automatically supplied) and what magical medicine called Uncontrollable Utterance Ailment. It sometimes occurred with people of a nervous temperament when using more than two drops of Veritaserum, and it was one of the reasons why more than three drops were never given - not even to people known to be skilled in Occlumency, who were able to defeat small doses.

The danger wasn't the babbling of thoughts and secrets. After all, there _were _no secrets among the Returned, not really. They had nothing but absolute trust and their own special, insuperable love. No, the danger was that the burning compulsion to tell the truth, any truth, all truth, could damage the mind. Victims of interrogation accidents could be left crippled, unable to sustain normal chains of thought for any length of time.

"You are all right," said Urg to Tonks, seriously. "We're here."

"I won't be able to go back to being an auror," whispered Tonks. "I won't, not anymore."

"No, love, you're wrong," said Susie. "The healer said there wouldn't be any permanent effects. Esther got you in time."

"No, it's over," said Tonks, shaking her head, hunching down and hugging her legs. Her voice was ragged. "They don't let you come back after something like this, a St. Mungo's something." But the words were barely out of her mouth before she rushed on, more words following in a rapid strained stream. "They don't let you look through the display robes at Madam Malkin's because they're afraid they'll get wrinkled but they told me it would be okay if I just looked at the pretty velvet one. Computers are stupid and Harry spent years just to build a toy and now that's all he's going to do. Odette's fingers look bad and won't stay healed and just go back to being scarred no matter what and it's because she gave them up to bring back Hermione but she shouldn't have done that just because they'd gotten hurt she should have used a toe. I really want to have children someday but I like hairy men and hairy men usually smell and I hate that so really I don't even know what to do."

Urg just patted her on the back. Charlevoix looked down at her hands, folded in her lap, thoughtfully, her expression unemotional.

_Better just to get right to it_, Hermione thought. She'd brought them together for a reason - well, before the peacock showed up.

"I wanted to talk to everyone. I have been thinking about what we should do, going forward. It doesn't seem like it will be too much longer before every country is part of the new Treaty. More and more, they're worried about logistics, about how to efficiently treat the entire world's magical population, and Squibs, and eventually even Muggles. There will eventually be something that's beyond that… beyond the Treaty, when even all the Dementors are gone."

She paused, glancing around, but they were only listening to her, attentively, with the exception of Tonks. Hermione went on.

"It seems strange to be saying this - strange even to be _thinking_ this - but that's the truth. I don't think we can or should stop doing the right thing. 'Save one life'... I'll always believe that, and I'll always try. But… well, what else? It's maybe time to start thinking about the implications of eternity." She stopped again, awkwardly, then shook her head. "It's just… a few weeks ago, Charlevoix and Esther told me they wanted to get their own place, together. You know that. And Tonks, you _will_ go back to being an auror, like you wanted. But I just wanted to say, now, before we get back to that point… Well, I wanted to say that those things make me so happy, and so proud. It's want I want for all of you… _when you want it_, that is."

She sighed, and smiled a small smile, both sad and happy. "I love all of you. You are my heart. And there will never come a day when I won't want you around. There's no rush - literally no rush at all, we have _forever_. But it's okay to think about yourselves, now, if you can. The world is on the right track. Things are going to be okay."

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_The Ministry of Magic, Whitehall_

_May 17th, 1999_

When Amelia Bones visualized the world, she pictured a herd of bicorn, milling around and tossing their heads. Each nation pushed to go its own way, bellowing and butting its head against obstacles, and only rarely did two beasts move in the same direction. To start a stampede, you needed leadership and you needed something so loud that it would startle the whole herd.

At this moment, Bones was writing a letter to a Korean official, intent on spurring the state to join the stampede into the Treaty for Health and Independence. China was threatening to bolt, and Thailand had already vowed they would not stand alone among the Ten Thousand if China went its own way with the rest of that bloc. That solidarity gave them too much strength and too much bargaining power. So right now, the best thing for the Treaty was to break off a strong but small state from the Ten Thousand, while at the same time offering the Court of Rubies an illusory opportunity to split Russia away from the new Treaty.

The entire enterprise was complicated and delicate, and so Bones did not relish the knock on her office door. She looked up in irritation at the sound.

"Come," she snapped. She returned her attention to the letter, trying to finish the sentence before she forgot the phrasing she'd chosen. _The Court of Rubies has nothing but your best interests in mind, Chancellor Lee, _she wrote, _and while I might have my own views on the subject, I urge you to listen to them._

The door pushed open, and she glanced up. It was Reg Hig, looking his usual self with his lump of a nose and unshaven chin.

"Madame Bones, do you have a minute?"

"Yes, Councilor. Come in, please," Bones said. She swallowed her irritation without a second thought, ensuring she looked calm as she stood up. She offered her polite smile - no warmth, but cordiality.

"Thank you," said Hig. He sat down in the chair in front of her desk, and Bones sat back down.

"How can I help you? Was there something from yesterday's meeting you wanted to follow up on? I know we're both concerned about Bellatrix Black, and I'd welcome any solution you could offer. The American skill with devices is well-known."

"There were a few things I wanted to talk about, Madame Bones," said Hig. "The rumours I've been hearing about your goblins getting ready for a new uprising, for one. Also I wanted to discuss the provisions in the Treaty for a timeline towards more rights for Beings. I'm not quite sure that will end up being workable for centaurs, who don't have the same faculties as wizards, and so we need to discuss alternatives." Bones opened her mouth, but he was already continuing, "But the most pressing matter is a concern I have about Mr. Potter." Bones subsided, looking expectant.

"After the meeting the other day," Hig went on, "Mr. Potter and I had a chance for a brief conversation about those Vanishing Rooms and the new trade that's starting up now that the tariffs have been lifted. But he did also have occasion to ask me about laws in the United States about magical research safety. He wanted to know what the most restrictive law we had might be - what could the longest sentence someone could get in an American jail for endangering others with dangerous Transfiguration research." Hig paused, leaning forward, fixing his eyes on hers. "Now why might he have been asking that, I wonder?"

Bones smiled, genuinely. Harry was still so young, sometimes, and didn't always think through on the implications of his words in a larger world. It was charming, in its own way… his method of earnest honesty. He certainly never hesitated to admit he was wrong or apologize for unintended offense. But Harry was, after all, barely an adult.

"Councilor, I promise you unreservedly that we are not doing any research anywhere in the Americas. All of our research is done here, in the Tower, or in Antarctica. As sinister as Mr. Potter's question might have sounded, it's actually a good sign - once you know the explanation. I see no harm in telling you that we have a wizard locked up in Nurmengard whom we caught when we first began strongly pushing back against Honourable and Independent aggression. He'd already been sacked from the Tower for failing to consider the safety of others as he did his research, with his memory altered to prevent him from continuing that work. When we took him into custody again, we found that he hadn't stopped that sort of dangerous research, and so he was brought before the Wizengamot." The proceedings were sealed, so Bones still tried to remain as vague as she could be while still being credible. The Council of Westphalia had ears everywhere, and the less they knew about this, the better. "Unfortunately, we couldn't sentence him to the sort of time he deserved… precedent is ample on this matter, and a lengthy term in Nurmengard would have drawn attention."

"There are other options in such cases," said Hig. "When such things come up in the Americas, it's usually dealt with in a less official manner."

Bones nodded. "That is the usual way, of course. And several of us advised Mr. Potter of that fact - about the way the world really works. At the time, he said that the law might need to change, but he wasn't going to go throwing people in prison for dangerous ideas. He insisted on strict surveillance, instead." She shook her head, ruefully. "Mr. Potter is an idealistic young man."

"So you believe this is good news, because he was asking about possibilities for sending this dangerous researcher to an American prison, instead. It could be done, I suppose, although there are simpler ways." Hig considered. "Strange, though, that he would change his mind and become more interested in practical methods for solving such problems. It seems unlike Mr. Potter, as far I know him."

"In recent weeks," said Bones, "he has seemed to be a little more hard-nosed. He sounds more like he did when he first came to Hogwarts as a boy. It is, I think, a good thing. At that age he was bold enough to face down the Wizengamot to save his friend… that sort of grit will only help us in the difficulties to come."

Hig nodded, leaning back. "I see. I suppose that is one perspective. I am happy to have your word that there are no secret research stations in the Americas, at least. Let's talk of those other matters. The centaurs. Now, I'm certainly glad we're not moving the other way, and the young Lord Malfoy isn't pushing us to allow centaur hunts anymore. But don't you think this is a little extreme?"

Bones had a ready reply, and Hig had a prepared argument. It was far too long before Bones could return to her letter, and by then she'd forgotten her train of thought. Damned Americans.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_Fort, Mumbai_

_May 17th, 1999_

_8:00 a.m._

The Yazdani Bakery was already full of people, everyone crammed in around the tiny tables as they sipped chai and passed around slices of brun maska and ramekins of butter. Many were local Irani, but the bakery was famous enough so that other sorts of people had come from farther away. There was even a timid pair of German backpackers in one corner, enormous dusty packs stuffed under their seat, holding hands as they shared a chai.

An older man slipped through the door. He wore a white shirt over his lungi, and he waved away an approaching waiter, seeming to know where he was going. He squeezed between two tables, then stepped around another.

Arriving at a table near the rear, the man stopped and folded his hands in front of himself, standing there. Two younger men were sitting at the table, eating ginger biscuits and brum maska. A third chair was empty.

After a moment, one of the young men glanced at the other, and then looked up at the stranger. "Not much room… sit with us, uncle?"

"Thank you," said the older man with a smile, also speaking in English. He nodded and pulled out the chair, lowering himself into it with care. "Very crowded."

"It's the workmen who are at Chaphekar Chowk," agreed the young man. "They come here first and spend an hour over their chai." He pushed the plate of biscuits closer to the older man.

"Have a biscuit, uncle," said the other young man, gesturing at them. "We have too many."

The man shook his head slightly, smiling again. "No, thank you." He leaned forward, looking closely at the fellow who'd asked him to sit down. "Excuse me, but might you be Rushad Irani? Is that right?"

The young man smiled widely, raising his eyebrows. He glanced over at his friend, but the friend also smiled and shrugged. The first turned his attention back to the stranger. "Yes… sorry, we have met?"

The older man chuckled, reaching out to put a hand on Rushad's forearm. "I feel almost that it is so… I am an old friend, Kumar Khan. _Egeustimentis._"

Rushad looked blankly back at the other man. His friend frowned and leaned forward. "What?"

The other two both ignored him for the span of a few seconds, then the older man let go of the Rushad's arm and turned to the friend. "I knew Rushad's mother when we were in school. She was fast with her samhitas! Always much better than me."

"Yaa, so?" said the friend in amazement, smiling again. "And you are in a Muggle cafe, uncle! I thought we were the only ones who liked it here. Rushad, this is so crazy."

"Oh, the brun maska - very very good," said the man.

As though he'd been lost in thought, Rushad fluttered his eyelids, then gave his head a little shake. He frowned, but only for a moment. Then a slow smile spread back over his face. "Jāt khāli-yé! This is so good!" He turned to his friend. "Mr. Khan always did so much for us, my mother always said. Helped us in very bad times. I have always wanted to do something for him." Rushad's face lit up, and he dug inside of his pocket. "Here, here… here, uncle." He produced a small case in black goatskin, the size of his palm.

"Rushad, what?" said the other young man, looking aghast at his friend. "Your portkey?"

"Yes, yes… here, please, sir. Take it, take it… a trip to London," said Rushad, pressing it into the man's hand.

"You saved for months for your trip, Rushad! That is fifty cauldrons!" said the friend. He looked uncomfortable, as though privy to something too private for an outsider to see.

"Mr. Khan saved my family!" said Rushad, almost harshly. "This is only a part of our debt."

"Yaa," said the friend, uncertainly. "Well -"

"Thank you, Rushad," said the older man, bowing his head slightly. "Thank you so much. It has been a very, very long time since I was in London."

"No, I thank you, Mr. Khan… it is good to be able to do something for you."

"I should go, and let you return to your breakfast among the Muggles. Such a generous gift… thank you, Rushad," said the older man, solemnly. He rose to his feet. The two young men also stood up politely.

"Please, Mr. Khan, while you are in town, will you visit my mother? She talks of you still," said Rushad, clasping the older man's hand.

"I will try," said the man, smiling. "You are a fine young man, Rushad." He turned to clasp the friend's hand. "And it is good to meet you, too. _Egeustimentis."_

The friend stared back at the older man blankly for a moment, then nodded, slowly. Rushad frowned. "What is the matter?"

Blinking rapidly, his friend turned to him. "I think that -"

"_Egeustimentis Ba_," said the older man. Then, without another word, and pausing only to scoop a handful of ginger biscuits from the table, he left. He moved carefully around the other tables in the crowded bakery. Then the older man was out the door, and gone.

The two young men stood there. After some time, they both sat down back in their seats - but slowly and clumsily, like sleepwalkers. Their neighbors at another table noticed, and one young lady made a joke at their expense while her companion chuckled.

They stared off into space for a while. Then Rushad reached for his chai, and lifted it to his lips. He sipped it, casually, and reached for a ginger biscuit. There were only a couple left.

Rushad leaned over and frowned at the plate. He looked up at his friend. "You ate all the biscuits."

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_From the journal of Edgar Erasmus, as written in his cell in Nurmengard:_

_They don't understand. Little men with little minds, and they don't understand._

_These Muggle ideas are simply too great to be ignored, too magnificent to be left where we found them. That is what so few understand. Yes, there is a risk, I acknowledge that… but don't they realize the __stakes__? How many generations of wizards have warned about the fading of magic, when our wands will be __sticks in our hands__? But I think no one has really paid attention to actually doing something. We have propositions we can __try__. Wipe out or send away all the Muggles of Scotland - will the flame of the Hebridean Black wax stronger? Purge the mudbloods of Cyprus - does a__ Cypriot light glow brighter?_

_But there's no one to do such things, and so men of genius must take the matter into their own hands. __Magic decreases with every generation, replaced with a milksop sort of imitation.__ So we must seize new ideas where we find them. If __little men__ denounce that innovation because it comes from Muggles: more __fools__ they! If __little men__ denounce that innovation because it poses some petty risk: more __fools__ they! __Damn that boy in his tower damn him damn him damn him for the imbecile he is._

_And all the better since I can see the shape of ideas yet to be realized - __true and new advances in magical thinking__. It's in the air with these new thoughts… testing and sorting, the new "journals," all of that. Waiting to be discovered. A genuine new idea of magic - a new insight into how it works. If that were found for the first time in generations… __amazing new power__. It is impossible to overestimate how great the power such a discovery could bring. And these fools __stand in the way__!_

_My research is gone twice over, even the very knowledge of it taken from me and stoppered behind glass. But I will not be deterred. My sentence will be over in a trifle of two years, and I will have much time to think. To discover a new law of magic will be to __become a power__._


	43. Pip Around the World

_Portkey Office, Ministry of Magic, Whitehall, London  
May 17th, 1999_

"Hullo!" said Pip, smiling at the gent at the Official Business desk.

He looked up wearily from a thick ledger, squinting at Pip. "Hello." He stared at Pip with red-rimmed eyes, and waited. Pip smiled brightly back at him, expectantly. Finally, the man said, "Can I help you with something?"

"Auror Philip Pirrip, here to pick up some portkeys," said Pip, his smile dimming slightly at the reception. It brightened again as he leaned forward and said, meaningfully, "On business for the Tower."

The official stared at Pip for a moment, then looked back down at the ledger. He ran his finger down a column on the left, and then the one next to it. "Pirrip, Philip… yes. 875 Oxtail Red." He looked back up at Pip, and shoved back from his desk. His wheeled seat squeaked rhythmically as it bore him over to a bureau along the wall of the office. The man didn't even bother to get up, but just pushed himself along with his legs as he trailed an index finger along one row of small drawers, then down to another. All of them were progressively darker shades of red. When the official had found the one he wanted, he yanked it open. "Here we are, then." Another scoot of his chair brought the man squeaking back to his desk and Pip.

The official put a velvet sack on the desk. "Hangzhou, Bangkok, Cyprus, and return to the Ministry. All labeled. Don't mix them up." He took a quill from his desk and made some notes in his ledger, shoving the sack over to Pip.

"Thank you," Pip said, scooping up the sack. He opened it and checked inside, just for a quick count of the grimy old envelopes inside. There were four, sure enough. One of the envelopes was open - it looked to have an old biro inside.

"They're all there and all correct," said the man behind the desk, and Pip looked up to see him frowning in disapproval.

"Just checking," Pip said, uncomfortably. "After that thing the Weasley twins did, it just -"

"_They're all there and all correct_," said the official again, grindingly. He slammed the heavy ledger shut, and his inkwell rattled on the desk. They didn't like to be reminded of when the Weasleys had replaced all the Russian and Hungarian portkeys. Everyone who'd tried to go to Moscow had ended up in the third-floor loo, instead.

Well, there was no telling from looking at the bloody things, anyway, Pip supposed. He'd just have to hope he didn't end up somewhere nasty. Or if not, at least someplace dry.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_Yu's Library, The Court of Rubies, Hangzhou_

"Hullo!" said Pip, his face serious. "I'm here to pick up a parcel for Mr. Harry Potter-Evans-Verres." He did his absolute best to project an image of power and foreign might, tilting his chin upward and slightly to the side. It was a haughty look, he thought - the look of someone who had looked death in the eye and triumphed.

"Are you okay?" Sunny Chow asked from his side. He turned to see the Wizengamot's Special Envoy to the Court of Rubies staring up at him. She was shorter than average for someone of Asian descent, and she was looking at him frank curiosity in her hazel eyes.

Pip deflated slightly. Maybe his jawline wasn't strong enough to pull that off.

"No parcels here," said the librarian, his English heavily accented. He shook his head, and swept one palm around the room, as though to draw Pip's attention to the towering, haphazard stacks of books and piles of scrolls that occupied almost all of the long and wide room. "This is the library. You want the owlery. That way, sir." He pointed to one of the doors.

"No, Zhongying," said Chow, waving a hand dismissively. "This is Auror Pirrip. His Excellency He Jin has left a package here for the auror. It's going to a Mr. Harry Potter-Evans-Verres. His Excellency would have left this here himself."

"I will check," said the librarian. He turned and made his way to a corner of the room, stepping lightly among stacks of books that were easily twice his own height. They swayed unsteadily, simply from the touch of air left by his passage, but none of them fell.

_Why a queer way to sort everything,_ thought Pip, watching a pyramid of scrolls. A stray scroll slipped from its place at the top of the heap and skidded halfway down the side of the pile, only to catch on the curling corner of a companion and hang there, precariously. _And this place would be a nightmare to defend. Must be like this for protection against theft, and maybe camouflage. Hard to browse, but maybe that's not something they want people doing._

The librarian pushed aside a false panel in the wooden wall, and withdrew a metal case. He opened it, and Pip saw it was filled with glowing phials of memories. The librarian squinted at them, then nodded, slowly. He turned back to them. "Yes, there is something here for you. I apologize for my rudeness. If it would not be too much trouble, I must use precautions before I retrieve your package." He gestured at one of the few clear areas on the floor, and Pip saw that there was a faint outline of chalk there in the shape of a circle.

Pip glanced at the Special Envoy, but Chow had nodded easily, and was already stepping into the circle. He joined her. "What is this?" he muttered, uneasily. "Ward?"

"Not quite. Do you know the writings of a Xiang Yu?" Chow whispered back. The librarian rummaged in his robe, pulling his wand from some interior pocket. Pip shook his head in the negative.

"Well," Chow said, as the librarian pointed his wand at them, "let's just say you don't want to move."

"_Peskipiksi rendehoushan_," cast the librarian.

Almost without transition, Pip and Chow were encircled by an orange screen of some kind. It stretched in an unbroken column from the wooden floor to the wooden ceiling, and Pip could feel the heat of it on his face. He didn't start in surprise, but his wand was already in his hand, and he held the first stage of the wordless Drill Breaking Hex ready in his mind. But they didn't seem to be in any immediate danger, as long as they didn't move, and Chow was standing calmly next to him with her arms folded.

Pip could see through the orange. It was some manner of liquid, and small eddies and swirls moved lazily through it, but also thin enough that it was translucent. The librarian was visible through it, and Pip watched him as he stepped to one side of the room, and levitated a short stack of books to one side, uncovering a Pensieve. He added a memory to it, and then immersed his head.

Less than a minute later, the librarian rose from the basin, and turned to the chalk circle. He whispered the command word inaudibly, and the orange glare vanished as quickly as it had come.

"I apologize to you, Special Envoy and sir auror," the librarian said, inclining his head slightly. "The parcel was left here under some special circumstances, and we were not permitted to know about it."

"It is, I am told, a matter of some security and secrecy," said Chow. "The fault is ours, not yours."

The librarian inclined his head again, and turned to the wall where he'd retrieved the memory. He took hold of a seemingly random wooden panel and pulled on it, and the board telescoped out from the wall, revealing itself to be a large cabinet with numerous small cubby-holes apparent in its surface.

He pulled on the knobs of four of the drawers in sequence, and the last one slid open at his touch, allowing the librarian to slide his hand inside. The mouth of the cubby was too small for this, but it obligingly distended to permit him to reach inside.

_I bet that if you do the sequence wrong, or choose the wrong little drawer, or something else like that, then you could lose your hand that way,_ Pip marveled. It was a good idea, but he'd bet it led to a lot of accidents. He'd have to tell the Ministry about it. Maybe they could imitate it, and a certain rude squeaky squinty git at the Portkey Office might be a little more polite in the future.

The librarian slowly and gently pulled out something from the hole - a book. No, part of a book. The ragged edges of torn binding showed that it was just a few dozen pages and a cover, ripped free from the whole book. The librarian turned and offered the packet to Chow, inclining his head again. She accepted it, bowing slightly in return, and turned to hand it to Pip.

He took it, and glanced at the cover. Not Mandarin, but an English book. Not new binding either, and it looked at least two or three centuries old. But it was also clearly the _re_binding… a glance at the exposed back page showed that it was truly ancient, tinted yellow and marred with small imperfections in the parchment. The longskin goat had been bred in the fourteenth century, making the original book at least six hundred years old. It had seen some mishandling, too… affixed inside of the cover was a scrap of parchment that was clearly only the middle part of a page. None of the text was legible to him, which was probably just as well.

Pip looked at the cover again. The book was by Harry Lowe, according to the gilt letters.

_The Transmygracioun_, it was called.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_resisted them with its power. Our people took hold of the knowledge, and have donne great things. Likewise in the future, there will be invaders. But thei shall take the whole world. Fear shall come with them, and ruin. There lies the doom of which I have spoken to you. Þis shall not last. There shall be new maistery, and new maisters to take the place of the old. I have seen þis, and so I say to ye to come þis key. The fires of the soul are great and burn_

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_The Wizarding Bank of Bangkok, Bangkok, Thailand_

"Hullo!" said Pip, peering over the counter. "Anyone here?"

The bank building was dimly lit and poorly maintained. The floor was beautiful marble, but it was marked with innumerable scratches and scrapes. The long front desk was similar, made of a creamy soapstone marred with long gashes all along its surface. The place looked deserted, without even a guard, which was rather odd for a bank. It was somehow stranger, though, when Pip noticed that there also wasn't any furniture. No stools were behind the counter, no message boxes or unsummonable security boxes were resting on it, and there weren't even any chairs for customers.

"ขอโทษ… ขอโทษ!" called a voice from a back room, speaking in rapid Thai. A moment later, a chubby man with dark skin shuffled out into view. He was wearing a loose white robe and linen trousers, and he was barefoot. "สวัสดีครับ."

"Sorry, do you speak English?"

"คุณพูดไทยได้ไหม?" came the reply from the man, who looked puzzled.

"What?"

"อะไร?"

"Is there anyone here who speaks English?" Pip said, desperately. He'd just assumed that the bank would have someone who spoke English. Maybe that was silly, but English had been the wizarding language of the world for centuries. Almost everything the Confederation did was in English.

"Prasong!" called out the man, turning to shout over his shoulder. "Praaaaaasong! Prasong! คนอังกฤษ!"

"Yaaaaa!" called a response, sounding irritable. "ฉันกำลังมาาาาาาา!" Another man emerged from the back room. He looked identical to the first. For a moment Pip worried that he was turning into a Muggle and a horrible person, but realized after a moment that the two were twins.

"Hello, sir?" said the second twin. He had a strange way of speaking, ending each sentence as though it were a question. "Welcome to the Wizarding Bank of Bangkok? Can I help you?"

"Yes, hullo. I'm here to pick up a parcel? Auror Philip Pirrip, from Britain?" said Pip. He glanced around the room. "Is everything all right here?"

"Yes? Only English parcel here, I think?" said the man, nodding. "No problems?" He turned to his brother and said some things rapidly. They sounded like questions but were apparently instructions instead, since the other man vanished into the back again, nodding repeatedly.

Pip and the anglophone stood there in silence, awkwardly. The Thai man yawned hugely, rubbing at his face. Pip wondered if he'd just woken up. It was rather late here, after all.

"Where is everything?" Pip asked, speaking up to break the silence.

"Everything what?" asked the man.

"Well, this is a bank, right? Where are all the… banking things?" Pip finished, lamely.

The man shrugged. "We don't want things to be stolen? Money is in the vaults, so we can keep it from people… outside?" He flapped his hand at the door.

"But what's to stop someone from just… going back there and going into the vaults? Only you're here to guard the place," Pip pointed out. "In Gringott's, they have all sorts of guards… wizards and goblins both." He paused. "Are there loads of goblins back there or something?"

The man scratched his face, looking thoughtful at the question, then shook his head. "No, no… all the guards down on the sub-level? And Prethang and I are สควิบ… ah, Squibs? We just work?"

"This doesn't make any bloody sense," said Pip.

The Squib (could that be true?) shrugged. "One way into the bank? Naga live there, and they eat magic? If you are magic or have magic, they will eat you? So we go through the waterfall and down to the bank?" He shrugged again. "Guards down there, though, if you worry?"

Pip studied him. "That can't be true. There's not a kind of beast that only eats wizards. Professor Kettleburn wasn't good, but he wasn't so bad he'd have left that out."

The man just shrugged a third time, and said nothing. The pair stood in silence until his twin returned bearing another torn piece of book. It was the same book, Pip saw immediately. The last page was mostly gone, with only the first third still present. The rips looked like they would fit together.

The auror left without ever getting an answer, though he would make a full report. He never would find out the secrets of the Bangkok Bank… or a great many other things.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_Alle of these things I have told you, but there is one thing I have not told you. Þis then hear, and then I shall be donne. At the end of his tyme, Merlin seiden then he hadde a great prophetie, but that he would not explain it. He seiden instead these words, and bade rememberance. "The Achaeans have brought many knowledge to owr island of Britain. Thei came to us as invaders, joyning with the little and the færie and laying waste to our places of power. Ac Britain is a strong land, and it_

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_Cypriot Hold, Cyprus_

"Hullo!" said Pip. Some of the cheer had worn out of his voice, but he still tried to keep his best foot forward. It was like his mum always said: Act like a troll and folks will treat you like one.

The woman who turned towards Pip to fix him with a wary look was intimidatingly tall and extraordinarily beautiful. Thick waves of black hair were swept up into a loose and long ponytail that nearly reached her back, and her formal robes were a glimmering metallic fabric that clung to her body with the tailored precision of enchanted garments. Her eyebrows were sharply sculpted, slashing in skeptical curves over enormous brown eyes.

"Auror Pirrip?" she asked, her voice a throaty burr. "From the Tower?"

Pip thought he must be floating.

"Yes," he managed. "It is I."

She studied him for a moment longer, then nodded. "I am Lady Feri Sarah Ellesmere Önder, of the Noble House of Önder. I have a parcel for you, if you wish it."

Pip nodded, and tried to keep his smile from stretching to silly dimensions. "Thank you, Lady Önder. That would be appreciated."

"This way, then."

Pip fell into step next to the Cypriot as she led the way out of the Hold. It was a fragile-looking building of fluted glass columns and diamondine crenulations, and it looked all the more delicate for the damage that scarred its sides. Fire had taken some of the columns, and great melted rents had eaten into the walls behind. When the Tower had fought back against Independent aggression around the world, the Cappadocians had seized the opportunity to attack their ancient enemy once more. Even at this hour, three goblins were at work repairing a column. The wizard who owned them stood nearby - an immediate reminder that this was a barbaric country in some ways. It was scarcely believable that the bloody slavers here considered themselves British.

"Why has your master requested this book of me?" asked the Lady Önder as they walked, speaking quietly. "It is the greatest treasure of my House. I'd know the purpose of its journey."

"I don't know, madam," Pip admitted. "He wants to read it, I suppose. My, ah, 'master' is the Tower, and he seems to want to know everything."

Their path took them down the streets of Magical Cyprus, walking on smooth stones that had seen thousands of years of foot-traffic. There were few others on the streets - a single vendor selling aromatic snacks of roasted nut-and-fruit pastries; a pair of young women out for a romantic stroll, arm in arm; and a collared goblin carrying a caged owl.

"Your master thinks he already knows everything, I think," said the Cypriot. She stopped at the door of a grand home of green stone. It was very British in appearance - looked rather like pictures Pip had seen of Malfoy Manor, in fact - with the exception of the elegant minaret that rose from the roof peak. A crest was worked in gold into the stone above the door - three arms bendwise couped.

"What do you mean?" Pip asked.

The Lady Önder opened the door. "The Treaty, and now its successor, have brought much good to me and mine. But there is also a great deal of… direction in it. Matters that I had thought long settled are re-opened, and there is even some… well, some might call it ingratitude." She stepped aside, and gestured. "Please."

Pip nodded, and entered. "I am sorry to hear that you feel this way, madam. Cyprus and Britain have always been close."

The Cypriot smiled sharply. "Not always. But yes, for a long time we have followed the leadership of your country. At times, we have been the only ones to do so. In the minds of many, this should earn us some measure of respect from Britain. A friend does not like to see another friend take advantage."

"You don't like the interference," said Pip. It was cool and dark inside the home, but it was obvious that the House of Önder was enormously wealthy. There were low couches of white bicorn leather, an expensive-looking scrying mirror on one wall, and a vase with a towering arrangement of silver flowers. A wide staircase led up and out of sight.

"We do not," said the Lady Önder. Her voice was chilly. "Things have now been arranged so carefully that we have no alternative. That doesn't mean we need be pleased with that change, or the other changes that will be forced on us."

"I'm sorry that it is disturbing the relations between our countries," said Pip, summoning his best diplomatic turns of phrase. _Yes, terribly sorry to be interfering in your bloody slavery, you crazy pile of kneazle-kak. Can't use house-elves like civilized people? What a bother for us to disturb your traditions. I'll try to get out of your hair as soon as possible so you can get back to sipping baby blood out of your goblin-skull goblets, or whatever it is you do here._

"Mithri!" called the Cypriot, raising her voice. "The Britisher is here. Bring me the book."

There was a quiet scraping sound from above. "Yes, Lady Önder," called back a tired voice.

The owner of the voice made his way to them. The steps sounded wrong - a thump and a scrape - and the reason became apparent as speaker came down the stairs, into the lights at the front entrance. It was a goblin, and he had only one leg. He used a crutch, hobbling slowly and carefully down the steps. The Being had very short ears for a goblin, but a long nose. The nose had a kink in the middle. It looked very tired, although at least they'd seen fit to give it decent clothing: a white tunic and necktie. The steel of a collar was just visible under the tie. There was a book under its free arm.

"Here you are, Auror Pirrip," said the Lady Önder, as her slave offered Pip the book. "I do not expect to see it again. I hope it brings your master ill."

"Thank you, Lady Önder," said Pip. "Thank you for everything."

"Everything?" asked the Cypriot, frowning, as Pip walked to the door.

"Yes, everything," Pip said, as he left. "Please believe me when I say that you have made me very proud tonight. Twice."

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_as bright as the stars." At þis there was silence, and then protest, and then dismai, for none could understand these words. Thei were once more trublid. Mundre of the Brook took these words and set them down, and from him they passed to his son Mundre, and from him thei were taken by Togrod Teulu, and recovered from the little in the time of Yæl, who passed them to me. I have set them for you, that they may not be lost. So we are complete, and my tale is donne._

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_Safety Pole, Godric's Hollow_

_The same day_

"Hello," said a kindly-looking older man. "I wonder if you could help me?"

The auror and the healer on duty at the Godric's Hollow Safety Pole were deep in a hand of Dragon Poker, but the healer was dutiful, and he dropped the cards without a thought. He ignored the sour look on the auror's face.

"Of course, sir. Are you feeling all right?" said the healer, drawing his wand.

"A little peaky," said the man. He accepted the offered hand of the healer, nodding gratefully. "It's been a worry."

"Ah, no need to worry any more," said the healer. "Everything will be all right."

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_Alle of these things I have told you, but there is one thing I have not told you. Þis then hear, and then I shall be donne. At the end of his tyme, Merlin seiden then he hadde a great prophetie, but that he would not explain it. He seiden instead these words, and bade rememberance._

"_The Achaeans have brought many knowledge to owr island of Britain. Thei came to us as invaders, joyning with the little and the færie and laying waste to our places of power. Ac Britain is a strong land, and it resisted them with its power. Our people took hold of the knowledge, and have donne great things. Likewise in the future, there will be invaders. But thei shall take the whole world. Fear shall come with them, and ruin. There lies the doom of which I have spoken to you. Þis shall not last. There shall be new maistery, and new maisters to take the place of the old. I have seen þis, and so I say to ye to come þis key. The fires of the soul are great and burn as bright as the stars."_

_At þis there was silence, and then protest, and then dismai, for none could understand these words. Thei were once more trublid. Mundre of the Brook took these words and set them down, and from him they passed to his son Mundre, and from him thei were taken by Togrod Teulu, and recovered from the little in the time of Yæl, who passed them to me. I have set them for you, that they may not be lost. So we are complete, and my tale is donne._

Harry Lowe, _The Transmygracioun_, passus tertius decimus


	44. The Ineluctable Modality of the Visible

"_What stories do you mean, and what fault do you find in them?"_

"_The fault one ought to find first and foremost, especially if the falsehood isn't well told."_

"_For example?"_

"_When a story gives a bad image of what the gods and heroes are like, the way a painter does whose picture is not at all like the things he's trying to paint."_

"_You're right to object to that. But what sort of story in particular do you have in mind?"_

"_First, telling the greatest falsehood about the most important things doesn't make a fine story - I mean Hesiod telling us about how Uranus behaved, how Cronus punished him for it, and how he was in turn punished by his own son. Even if that were true, it should be passed over in silence, not told to foolish young people. And if, for some reason, it has to be told, only a very few people - pledged to secrecy and after sacrificing not just a pig but something great and scarce - should hear it, so that their number is kept as small as possible."_

"_Yes. Such stories are hard to deal with."_

-_The Republic _ II.377e-378a, Plato

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_John Snow Center for Medicine and Tower School of Doubt (The Tower)_

_May 17th, 1999_

_The same day_

"Well, that was a waste of two hours," drawled Draco, as he walked into the Pairing Partnership. He closed the door behind him, and the Lovegood Leaf rustled. "I suppose I never really considered just how tedious it would be to watch a gaggle of Muggles for any length of time." He shook his head, and swept one hand along his hair, smoothing it.

"Didn't enjoy the movie?" asked Harry, turning in his seat away from the computer screen. Auror Kraeme, nearby, kept a close eye on Draco. She was leaning with her back against a large metal cabinet, arms folded - but eyes sharp.

"You should call them something different, too. 'Movie'... it just emphasizes how primitive the entire thing is, compared to a real play." He affected his high-pitched Muggle Voice: " 'Wow, look, they're _moving _just like real people would, if only we had taste enough to go watch an actual troupe of performers!' "

"They used to be called 'talkies,' " Harry said, wryly. "So it could be worse. But ticket sales at the movie theatre go up every week, so I'm not sure that everyone agrees with you."

"It's the thing to do, like eating at Siegfried's. People are sheep, and right now you've set out some new paddocks. That doesn't mean there will be any long-term success. Grindelwald was a fanatic for painting, they say, but it's not as though Hungary is full of painterstoday. After Grindelwald was locked up in Nurmengard, most of the artists went back to sculpting. If you want people to become _actually interested_, not just intrigued by the novelty, then you need to make movies about things that they care about. Not Muggles with guns," Draco said. He pulled a chair over next to the EEG machine, where Harry was sitting in front of the attached computer.

"I am not going to start a production company," said Harry, shaking his head. But he froze in the middle of the gesture and frowned. "Well, actually, I guess there's no reason why we _couldn't_ do that. They could begin with adaptations of some famous wizard plays, and cast some of the same actors, probably."

"Ah yes, one more industry dominated from first to last by Harry Potter," said Draco. "No, I don't think you'll be doing that. It will hardly help generate an appearance of real success if you look to be propping up your Muggle ventures like that. No, I think we need to decentralize a little."

Harry laughed. "Malfoy Productions?"

Draco glanced over at the auror by the wall, within earshot, wordlessly. Harry followed the glance, then looked back at Draco with a smile. "A Vow of secrecy, don't worry."

The Lord Malfoy nodded, and went on. "Well, I was thinking of a joint venture with some Americans, actually. It wouldn't be difficult to start up a similar movies theatre in Tidewater. There's an old Westphalian ally with deep pockets, Littlebrook Strongbound, who might like to get ahead of your bosom friend Hig on something. Too much gold and control slipping through his fingers… and I think he senses the leash slipping around the Council's neck."

"You'll need visible capital to start something like that," said Harry, "since Malfoys have typically been invested rather heavily in flying castles, which are not known for their liquidity. And the finance sector hasn't been your friend over the past few years." Traditional private usury was almost extinct in Britain, along with the corresponding interest rates. "Too many people are paying attention."

"Yes," said Draco. "A visible success to explain the new money, and I'll whisper in a few confidential ears that it's really Cappadocian gold - payment for steering things their way, here."

"I was thinking Amycus Carrow as a source, actually," said Harry. "If you'd taken control of some of his assets, it would be a tidier explanation."

"The Carrow sisters might not appreciate the news that I've taken control of some of their uncle's properties and loans, Harry," said Draco, raising an eyebrow. "They've already been through rather a lot."

It was subtle and quiet, but those words were question and concern and accusation, all at once. It wasn't like Harry to forget about innocent bystanders - and whatever their ideology, the Carrow sisters were certainly innocent of anything that might merit dragging them through any more ugliness.

"You're right, of course," said Harry, shaking his head. He rubbed his forehead, sighing. "I'm distracted - not at my optimum self today."

"Mm," Draco said, in noncommital acknowledgment. "Anyway, if the Cappadocian plan doesn't seem enough, add another layer for the clever folk: have Moody 'investigate' the possibility that I've co-opted one of the Tower arithmancers, and that the windfall is actually your money. You've already been working on building up their mystique for years, so rumors of a rogue arithmancer would help with that, as well."

"All right," Harry agreed. He sounded unsettled.

"Have you been sleeping enough, Harry?" asked Draco. "Or have you been spending half your time in the clinic tending to mermaids with mumps and Squibs with splinters, and half in here, scanning people's brains as they cast Goat Into Goblet?"

"Why would anyone need a spell to… no, never mind," said Harry, rolling his eyes. "Yes, I've been getting plenty of sleep. There's just been a lot to keep track of. Managing the Tower and Britain and - well, the world - just keeps getting more complicated, especially without Hermione around." Draco pursed his lips, and Harry rushed on. "It's been good to rely on you, of course… but uniting the Treaties hasn't actually simplified the situation."

"And you keep finding new projects," Draco said, agreeably. "Like ancient discoveries one of your Unspeakable or Tower minions brought back to you."

Harry looked surprised. "How did..." He followed Draco's gaze to a nearby table, where a box of Macadam's Easy-Apply Melters was still out, and made a face. "Maybe I _am _tired," he muttered.

"The only reason you'd need repair strips would be if you were trying to fix something you couldn't transfigure," said Draco, smiling. "And that's a short list. Something we can use?"

"A book about Merlin," said Harry. "It's given me some ideas, but nothing I can use - unless I decide I'd really enjoy the entropic heat death of the universe."

Draco didn't ask. "Then maybe give it a rest. Honestly, you should probably take a vacation. You have the government and the Confederation and Tower research and all of your little side projects, like the stupid movies and the sfaironauts and your theory of magic research. And you've been at this pace for… well, since we met. You can't keep it up forever; you're only a Ravenclaw."

"Maybe I just need some smarter Slytherins to help," said Harry. "Whatever happened to Vincent Crabbe?"

"Still trying to get something working in Nocturne Alley," Draco admitted. "He's never really forgiven me, and I rather think he'd like to be a power of his own. He backed a chandler's, but unfortunately I understand that investment's gone pear-shaped recently." It was an elegant retort and reminder of Draco's subtlety, but Draco didn't gloat, and allowed himself only the slightest smirk. "Anyway, just think of taking a few days off. Leave government to that gawky frump of a Weasley, the world to Bones, and everything else to Moody and me. Catch up on your reading."

"Eventually I'm going to take an entire _year_ off… I'll go to Japan and spend my days having fun in the lab," said Harry. "But not yet. Things are still delicate. I'll be fine."

"I have a feeling this 'eventually' is scheduled sometime after everyone in the world has become free and immortal, there's a city on the Moon, and you've been able to take a quick little jaunt to Atlantis to pick up Dumbledore from outside of Time," said Draco. His voice was gentler than his words.

"We're one minute from midnight, Draco," said Harry, firmly. "Muggles have had the capability to destroy the world for generations, now, and it's only by the grace of Petrov it hasn't happened yet. I'm not going to introduce wizards to science and then take a vacation at the most delicate point. It's too dangerous. Look at Edgar Erasmus and how we've had to juggle people like him, to keep everyone safe." He shook his head. "Merlin tried to shut down the forward march of knowledge, since he thought that magical power was spreading too quickly and too easily. I don't think he was right about the solution, but that doesn't mean he was wrong about the problem. We have to keep tight control over things for right now. It's too dangerous for everyone, otherwise."

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_Elsewhere in the Tower_

_The same day_

Healer Owen Wilifred frowned. There was something very strange going on, here.

He glanced down at the patient, who was lying unconscious, immobile, and safely stunned. And older man of indeterminate ethnicity - Asia or India or someplace. Clearly never rejuvenated, and no external symptoms. But when Owen moved his wand lower on the patient's abdomen, he kept seeing the same thing: absolutely perfect internal organs, without a single flaw or oddity.

The diagnosis convivium seemed to be working correctly; when Owen placed his wand on his own stomach, the spell suite produced a vivid mental image of his intestines gently shifting. There was a familiar series of benign nodules along the outside of his colon, and his duodenum looked just as oddly lumpy as usual. But when Owen returned the wand to the patient and focused the diagnosis convivium back on him, there was not a single cyst, scar, or other irregularity. And no matter where he looked, it was the same. The patient's body was as perfect as the illustrations of a medical textbook, and that was simply strange… _especially_ since he was complaining of general aches and pains. They didn't appear to have any irregularities at all, much less a condition that would cause any suffering.

Owen considered the possibilities. It was conceivable that the patient just happened to be a bizarrely perfect specimen who had never had any sort of trauma, despite what appeared to be at least six decades of life. That was very unlikely, though. It was also possible that the man - Mr. Khan, by his intake parchment - had been seriously hurt and had received magical healing to most of his body. But that usually left traces; Skele-grow, for example, left bones with a distinctive (if harmless) spiral pattern of nonlamellar and lamellar.

The most likely explanation that occurred to Owen, though, was also the most alarming one: that the patient had been one of the first wizards to receive rejuvenation. If that were the case, it might explain the fact that his appearance was still middle-aged. In the earliest days of the Tower, Owen had heard that they'd sometimes omitted the cosmetic restoration. If the patient had been one of the first to be rejuvenated, it might also explain why they didn't have any treatment records for him. Many of those early records had been lost in some sort of fire, years ago.

It was also possible that Mr. Khan had been rejuvenated more recently, and had been granted special exemption from the cosmetic restoration. That was very rare, however, and it wouldn't explain the lack of a Tower record for the procedure.

At this point, Owen really couldn't go any further without waking up the patient and eliminating some of these possibilities. He was beginning to be worried about time, though. The clock said that he had only about fifty minutes before Harry's next pass through the clinic. The Tower enchantments required Harry's express touch before any healing transfiguration would become permanent, so if Owen didn't get this solved and the healing done quickly, he'd be stuck with Mr. Khan until the next scheduled pass - three more hours.

Did he need an auror when he woke up the patient? Probably not. Mr. Khan wasn't important or powerful enough to have any sort of file, and he didn't have his wand, like every patient. Plus, Owen wasn't a bigot or anything, but he hadn't been able to help noticing that Mr. Khan's wand was so battered-looking that it must be second-hand (or even third-hand).

Still, protocol was protocol. The security at the Tower was incredibly complex, considering the difficulties of admitting and treating powerful strangers from all over the world, but it wasn't infallible.

Owen stuck his head out of the screened-off examination cubicle, pushing aside the curtain. He called down the hall, "Wake-up here, need an auror!"

A bored-looking auror came striding on down past the rows of cubicles, nodding. "Anything I need to know?"

"He's a bit funny in his guts. I think he might have been an earlier rejuvenation - back before the Tower moved to this facility. I've heard about them… you were here then, right?" said Owen, handing over the sparse file that they'd started on Mr. Khan in the Receiving Room.

"No," said Auror Madagascar. "I was stationed somewhere else, then. But I heard the same thing." He flipped open the file, but it had virtually no information beyond a few uninteresting personal details like place of origin (the Vedic Kingdom, though he was admitted via the Godric's Hollow pole), number of siblings (seven, all deceased), and the like. Madagascar shrugged. "Wake him up."

Owen did so, after making sure a privacy spell was on and that Madagascar had raised the basic safety wards. That was just standard - some people didn't react well to waking up from the stunning effect of the Safety Stick or Safety Poles. A majority awoke as calmly though they were waking from a nap, but some people become disoriented and alarmed.

The patient opened his eyes, gently, and blinked a moment. He tilted his head and took in the healer and the auror, then glanced around. A flicker of some expression passed over his face - not the usual fear or uncertainty or pain, but instead a shadow of apprehension. But it was gone as quickly as it came.

"Am I all right?" Mr. Khan asked. He closed his eyes for a moment, and let out a long sigh.

Owen smiled. "You're fine, Mr. Khan. You're in the John Snow Center for Medicine. In the Tower. My name is Wilifred Owen. I'm a healer here. This is Harry Madagascar - he works here with me. We wanted to ask you a few questions, but if you need a moment to get oriented, take your time."

The patient sat up, nodding. "May I stand up? Is that all right?" he asked, mildly.

"No, sorry," said Owen. "It might make you dizzy. Just give it a minute." He stepped back next to Madagascar, but the auror waved him to the side. _Clear line of fire_, thought Owen, and restrained the temptation to roll his eyes.

Mr. Khan shifted where he lay on the cot, moving carefully. He was wearing very simple brown robes, worn through in spots with use.

"You told the healer you'd been feeling pains?" asked Owen.

"Yes," said Mr. Khan. He turned to look at Owen, and then at Madagascar, and then jerked his head downward, sharply, cringing. He reached to his chest with one hand, and grimaced. "Again."

Owen frowned, shaking his head. "I don't know what could be causing that... " He stepped forward again, lifting his wand. Behind him, he heard Madagascar move to one side - finding a good angle for a clear view. "Tell me, have you been here before, sir?" Owen set his wand on Mr. Khan's chest, and stared at the blank white wall of the cubicle as he focused on the view of the patient's organs afforded by the convivium. Everything looked pristine.

Mr. Khan murmured something, quietly. Owen lowered his head a little. "Pardon?" The patient reached up and gently touched Owen's elbow, and repeated himself in a whisper.

"I said, _Egeustimentis_."

_And Owen went away for a while, and he and Mr. Khan were alone for a time in some narrow space. It seemed like hours, though it was only seconds._

_While they were there, Mr. Khan made some changes to the way Owen thought about things. Owen distantly observed the process, and found it interesting. It was as though Mr. Khan were simultaneously very large and very small, peering down from a great height at Owen's mind - even as he moved within it. Owen's mind, Owen noted, was a ceaselessly sliding mass of a thousand thousand thin layers of slippery jelly, undulating and quivering as they slithered into and over each other. Simultaneously, it was an intricate tracery of vinegar-smelling lights that touched each other and flared bright and faded. And it was a stabbing prickery of needles stabbing in and out of dark shapes that quietly sighed. And Owen's mind was other things as well, as need be._

_Mr. Khan moved things and explained to Owen that he needed Owen to be a slightly different sort of person. Not very different, but different enough to help Mr. Khan. After it had all been explained, it made sense. They spoke for a long while. All the while that they spoke, Mr. Khan was moving jelly/lights/needles/switches/teeth. And at the end of this time, Owen had been both persuaded and altered, and he wasn't sure where the persuasion had ended and alteration had begun, or if there was even a division between the two, or if there was even a difference._

_Owen agreed it was probably best that Mr. Khan set up a way for him to forget about the whole thing. Mr. Khan set up a pressure in Owen's mind, waiting to be released by a command word - thoughts and impulses forced out of place and bent into tension, ready to spring out along a chosen path. He would leave only the one pressure, Mr. Khan explained, because he didn't want to hurt Owen. When Mr. Khan triggered the release of that pressure, Owen's mind would snap back into place along that chosen path… and Owen would forget that he'd ever treated Mr. Khan, helped Mr. Khan, and even that he'd ever known this Mr. Khan existed. By that time, everything would be all over._

_Everything would be all right, Mr. Khan said. They'd sort everything out._

_And then_

"Wilifred, you all right?" asked Madagascar.

Owen turned around. "Sure. Just can't figure this out." He shrugged, and turned away from the patient. "Mr. Khan, just relax for a moment. Let me get another healer to consult. We have some excellent people on staff here at the Tower, and we'll do what it takes to sort everything out."

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_Begin by asking students to consider how a rumor might spread among a population. Suppose on Day 1 a single person tells someone else a rumor, and suppose that on every subsequent day, each person who knows the rumor tells exactly one other person the rumor. Have students ponder, discuss and answer questions like: "How many days until 50 people have heard the rumor? 100 people? The whole school? The whole country?"_

_In the situation with the rumor, the number of people who have heard the rumor doubles every day; this is because, each day, every person who knows the rumor tells it to a new person. In other words, there is a 100 percent transmission rate: 100 percent of those who know the rumor spread it to someone else. A transmission rate this high means that the number of people who know the rumor will grow very quickly. In fact, in this simplified exponential model, one person could spread the rumor to the entire population of the United States in less than a month!_

"Exponential Outbreaks: The Mathematics of Epidemics," Patrick Honner


	45. Bonus: Draco

_Pursuant to an agreement, I grant and confirm to Armand _Malfoi _the Vale of _Haxburn Downs_, with the Manor of _Haxburn_, and the Chapel of _Haxburn_, &amp;c of the gift of _Osmundus Æþelindus_, Earl of _Haxburn_. I commend it to the _Use _of the selfsame Armand _Malfoi _with all good thanks for his _Service_ for he has ever been a _True Friend_ and _Loyal Servant_ of my _House_, and I know it shall ever be _So_, and I do charge Armand _Malfoi _with the good _maintenance _and _safekeep _of the _Treasury of the South West_ with all my Trust._

_Grant of Lord-Enchanter Assurence de Chute, two years before his untimely death_

≡≡≡_Ω≡≡≡_

_Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire, England_

_February 12th, 1997_

_A year and ago_

"Put the samovar on," Draco said, gesturing at the tapered silver device and glancing at Gregory. Three domovoi were visiting that evening, and they tended to be particular about such niceties. It was probably part of their unrelenting feelings of inferiority towards the British, as though Merlin's heirs were to blame for their position on top of the Confederation or their legacy of powerful magic. The Russians always wanted to be treated with every little courtesy, and bristled at any perceived slight.

Not that Draco would have it any other way. It was an easy lever to use, and required nothing of him but a bit of forethought. Everyone should be so pliable.

Gregory Goyle obliged, twisting one of the handles of the samovar. The device was an elegant piece, with two stylized dragon's heads protruding from the top. It began to heat itself with a quiet hiss. "What's the plan?"

"You bring them in, and then go and tag their brooms. The Thunderer has been spreading gold around, looking for ways to co-opt the Honourable. I want to know who's been helpful enough to be the point person for his emissaries," said Draco. "Once you've done that - and check out their people, see if there's any opportunities there - then you'll join us and play the heavy."

Draco paused, then spoke to the air, curtly. "Dobby."

Barely a breath passed before the elf appeared, stepping out from behind a curtain. It was rude to apparate into the middle of a room, of course… proper house elf etiquette required a furtive entrance. The bedraggled little creature's bony face was pained with anxiety. "Master?"

"Pack for a journey. Mother and I, both. Cold weather. Riding, formal blacks, formal greens, and lounging," Draco commanded. "I'll want to be ready to go by the time my meeting tonight is concluded." He turned away, gesturing dismissively.

"Yes, Master," said Dobby, eyes wide. He gently stepped back behind the curtain.

"Will Carrow be here for the meeting?" Gregory asked, looking uncomfortable.

"Yes," said Draco, giving Gregory a direct and cold look. _What of it?_, his face said.

"Fine," said Gregory. Nothing more. He busied himself with arranging the furniture appropriately. He removed the two light wooden chairs from the room, levitating them out and replacing them with heavier armchairs. There were five of these: two set in close pairs and one separate, near the fire. Draco would take the single chair, of course, and allow the visitors to choose their own seats.

How the Russians arranged themselves would be valuable information. If two sat and one stood nearby, it would show that they were choosing solidarity in some respect - usually indicating nervousness or conscious opposition. If all three sat immediately, it would show comfort and ease, suggesting Draco could easily advance the relationship by taking the domovoi into his confidence that very evening. If there was hesitation, the process and order in which they sat could be observed: who was the leader, who deferred to others, and so on.

Poor little domovoi, coming to Malfoy Manor.

They were necessary for the future, though - not just entertainment. Draco had a significant power base in Britain and many admirers abroad - the international subscriptions to _Unbreakable Honour_ were almost equal to the domestic numbers - but he'd never be a credible player on the world stage until he had some firmer connections with some of the globe's more reliable leaders. Voters were all well and good, but if you wanted iron in the glove, you needed some of the better sort on your side. You needed some tyrants.

There was a creak in the hallway outside, and Draco froze. Gregory snatched his wand up, his face hard.

"It's I," came the smooth voice of Amycus Carrow, "your Uncle Amycus."

"Come," said Draco.

The door opened, and Amycus Carrow entered. Tall and gaunt, the spymaster of the Honourable and old ally of the Malfoys was wearing black robes with shiny buttons, fastened tight up to his chin. The dark shadow of some scraggly whiskers were visible on his upper lip, and his hair was clipped very short.

"Draco, my boy," said Carrow. "So good to see you." His eyes flickered over the length of Draco's body, the way they always did - a possessive and lingering look. "Nacreous liver," he murmured, bizarrely and almost inaudibly. He seemed almost hungry.

"Hullo, Mr. Carrow," said Gregory, just a touch too loudly. He put a smile on his face as a shield.

Carrow started slightly, as though he hadn't realized Gregory was there, and swiveled his head to glance at the other man. "Gregory," he said in acknowledgment.

As usual, Draco was forced to admire the performance of Mad-Eye Moody. It wasn't simply the perfection of the acting, although that was so masterful that not even Amycus Carrow's nieces suspected the subterfuge (it helped that they were never permitted to spend much time with him, or to ever be alone with him: the uneasy parent's usual precaution against a "acrohandula"). No, the true magnificence of the performance was that Draco knew - he _knew_ \- that Moody was putting on this perfect imitation of Carrow at the same time as he played the part of Draco's spymaster while _also_ watching out for Harry Potter's interests _and_ remaining constantly vigilant of immediate threats. It was the virtuoso exhibition of a masterful fanatic.

"Was your excursion useful, Amycus?" Draco asked.

Moody - no, it was impossible to think of him as anything other than Amycus Carrow - Carrow pursed his lips. "Yes… I think so. You are the only one who can credibly promise such gifts to the Thai. They won't step out ahead of China, for fear of being left alone in the cold, but they will drag their feet as much as they may. The Ten Thousand are never quick on the stick, but I don't believe we need to worry about them joining the ranks of our enemies, any time soon."

The dragon's heads on top of the samovar opened their mouths, hissing twin streams of steam. Their eyes glowed a dull red.

Draco walked to one of the room's tall windows, and stood there for a moment, looking out at the night. He could see one of the towers of _The Declaration of Intent_, and it was a sharp reminder of the importance of the stewardship of assets.

"We will give them nothing they can use - ideas of promise, but no application. Dead ends," said Draco. "A taste of power, but nothing to tip our hand or upset the balance in the Ten Thousand."

"They aren't fools, my boy," said Carrow. "They won't be so easily misled. If a bitch will bear no pups, you don't just cut its throat… you also give your elf a lesson with the knife."

Draco thought of Dobby, and smirked. "If an elf is left so poorly trained, then there's no one to blame but yourself." He reversed Moody's metaphor, making it more to his liking: "We will throw a treat to our foreign friends. The Thais, the Russians, those Americans… old allies and new, they'll learn the potential power of joining us. We have people within the Tower and in the Department of Mysteries to assist."

"Such as Umbridge won't get you what we need," said Carrow, stroking his chin.

"Stolen secrets won't be the sole bait. There will also be simple advancements harvested from the Muggles. There is remarkable power in these techniques… power that will astonish even you, Amycus," said Draco, turning to the side and regarding Carrow again. "The principles of Mendel can reshape the flesh of beasts in a fashion more safe and more stable than even the feats of the fabled sarkamancers of the Eleusinian Mysteries. You think it is an accident that Loony Lovegood is meddling with Devil's Snare? The methods behind her madness are a coin for us, too." He snapped his fingers. "And we will also buy trust with deceit. Already and at this very moment, I am acting to set up a rival to the Honourable - a rival that will conspicuously fail, and in the process cost our erstwhile allies any investment they might make."

"Your lovely mother," said Amycus, nodding slowly.

"Taking a meeting - she is considerably enthused about the project. I believe it amuses her to hand-craft a rival. Traps made of people are an elegant thing."

"I would have been able to assist in this, had I known ahead of time, my boy." Carrow folded his hands in front of himself, tilting his head slightly to the side. His right eye twitched. "A mistake."

Draco's expression became cold, and his eyes narrowed.

Carrow stared back, unblinking.

There was a long pause. Then Draco drew a breath, and spoke with cold care. "You presume too much, _Carrow_."

Gregory stood up a little straighter, and squared his shoulders; a subtle and appreciated signal.

Draco turned to face Carrow, and brought his palms together in front of himself. He drew them apart across his chest, and as they parted, his father's cane appeared in the gap, growing as Draco spread his hands, until the Lord Malfoy could grasp the snake-headed silver handle and bring the other end down to the floorboards with a sharp crack.

Draco raised his voice, beginning loudly, all thunder and lightning "_I am_ _Draco Malfoy, and I… I..._"

His voice trailed off. Draco lowered his gaze. He fell silent. He let his shoulders slump slightly, as though the wind had been taken from his sails. He stood like that, and held it. Waited.

"Lord Malfoy?" asked Gregory, hesitantly.

"No," said Draco.

Gregory drew a sharp breath.

Draco raised his eyes again, glancing at Gregory. "No," he said again. "This is too important. It is too important for grandstanding."

Then he met Carrow's eyes with a steady gaze, and his voice was quiet. "No speeches, no grandeur, no orders. I tell you here tonight, Amycus Carrow, that this is the sticking point for a hundred generations of wizardkind. If we fail, then the world will be a darker and sadder place." Draco thought of a silver light he'd once seen… a pure glow that had overturned so many lies with its very existence, filling him with such an argent awe that it changed his world in a heartbeat. He imagined that light gone forever, and let that sorrow fill his voice. "If we fail - if we let one trick slip by or fall short by an ounce of wit, then our world will become a Muggle-made thing of immortal monsters. We are confronting an existential threat: a looming power that might not only end us, but end everything we hold dear."

He shook his head. "So no threats and no foolishness. If you don't have the mettle to hold to your place and do your part, even when it harms your pride, well - go, and may your chains sit lightly upon you." He raised his cane - a mere symbol and a powerless prop, but wasn't persuasion the mightiest thing of all? - and he pointed it at Carrow. "But if you have honour, and you're with us… then you are _with us_, and you will _heed your place_."

_Apophasis._

Before he'd even finished speaking, Carrow had fallen to one knee. "I can offer nothing but my apology and my fealty, Lord Malfoy."

Gregory looked as satisfied as the kneazle that caught the cracklebit. He crossed his arms, and a smile lurked at the corner of his mouth. He looked a foot taller. He looked like faith fulfilled.

"Master," said Dobby, emerging from behind a different curtain. "Your visitors are here."

"Let them in," said Draco, without taking his gaze off of Carrow. Dobby disappeared back behind the curtain once more. Draco lowered his cane. "Goyle, go meet them."

Goyle left, his face revealing barely-disguised triumph. The story of this moment would travel. Draco smiled.

Carrow and Draco were alone. There was only the quiet hiss of steam, rising dangerously from twin dragon heads, to keep them company.

"Bah," said Carrow, rising off of his knee and standing up again. He snatched out his wand and waggled it, almost too fast to follow, the the warm crackle of wards settled on around them. Privacy screens, above and beyond the ones that already layered the Manor.

Draco didn't say anything - didn't rub it in. There was no need.

"Try that again, Malfoy," he said, glowering, "and you will get a rather different reaction. Goyle will be spreading the story of how you lost an ear, instead."

Draco watched him coolly. "And damage everything we've been building? You have more discipline than that."

"Maybe. But also too much discipline to be afraid to upset the applecart, if need be," replied Carrow.

"Before you do, be quite certain it's worth it. One only gets one chance at ruining plans like these."

"Plans like these? Your mother is setting up some small circle of idiots to take a fall, sucking some Cappadocian money with them as they go, eh? Helping build up the Honourable to draw in all the enemy?" said Carrow. He stabbed a finger at Draco. "Or is it a cover for your own efforts to set up an independent base of power?"

"I'm not above a fall-back plan, Mad-eye," said Draco, "because I am not an idiot. If something happens to Harry, or he goes too far, or anything else… well, I don't intend to wager everything on one game of pitch-and-toss. But my fall-back lies in the Honourable: they are my 'independent' base of power, if need be, not some momentary troop of patsies. That is why the Honourable are loyal to me, personally. Harry knows that. You know that. And you both understand it, too, I think." He fixed Carrow with a harsh look. "Don't pretend to purity. I know you have your own private plans."

Not that he _knew_, really, but there could not be a safer assumption.

"There's a difference between preparation and betrayal," said Carrow, in a most un-Carrow-like growl. "Which are you at, I wonder?"

"_Continue_ to wonder," pronounced Draco, curtly.

"Aye," said Carrow, slowly. "Well. You may believe you can bludger Potter in the back, if you get the opportunity. And maybe you're right. He's clever, but soft. He trusts you. But I don't."

Carrow gave Draco a hard stare, and his very face was a reminder of his capacity for subterfuge. "Be careful thinking you can play a deeper game than me, boy. Many have tried... and gotten no deeper than six feet."

"Lord Draco Malfoy," said Gregory, opening the door across the room, "of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Malfoy, Britain's last and best defender of the honour of wizardkind and the fate of magic."

Draco turned to regard the door, cane in hand, and his face slid into a courteous smile of welcome. Three men with hard faces but indifferent grooming stepped into the room ahead of Gregory. They had the weighty air of importance. One of them wore a brooch of emeralds-and-alicorn, while another openly carried an old wand of the Slavic style, two feet long and bladed. They all wore the red woollen cloaks of Russian domovoi: the decision-makers of one of the great peoples in the wizarding world, no less magisterial than the Wizengamot. These were men who had held lives in their hands, who had scrutinized their subjects down to the curve of their soul, who had begun and ended wars as they saw fit.

Now they were come to Malfoy Manor.

Carrow and Goyle walked over to stand beside Draco. Draco's smile broadened.

"Please, gentlemen," he said. "Sit wherever you like."


	46. The Compresence of Opposites

_In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. The same was in the beginning with God. All things were made by him; and without him was not any thing made that was made. In him was life; and the life was the light of men. And the light shineth in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not._

John 1:1-5

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

The end came without notice or noise.

Auror Kwannon came in, waved Auror Kraeme over, and murmured something. Kraeme nodded and left, and Kwannon took up position behind Harry in the meeting room. He gave her a nod, but it didn't merit comment - it could be as simple as a bathroom break, and it happened all the time, and he trusted Kwannon just as much as Kraeme.

Harry went on with his meeting, talking with Luna and Umbridge about the next steps for the sfaironaut program. Frustratingly, the biggest problem seemed to be conflict between their two sfaironauts, Basil Horton and Ron Weasley. They were refusing to work together. Luna wanted to sack them both from the program and find someone new; Umbridge was determinedly defending Horton, and thought only Weasley should be grounded.

After twenty minutes, they hadn't reached a consensus. "I'll decide about this next week, after speaking to both of them," Harry said, sighing. He folded up the parchments in front of him, and swept them to one side.

"All right, Harry," said Umbridge sweetly, turning to look at Luna with an obvious look of triumph. She looked back at Harry as she got up from the table. "You'll see, once you speak to them. The difference is striking - a gawky boy versus an experienced man."

"A lot of experience," said Luna, cryptically, as she too stood up. Umbridge blushed. Harry sighed.

"Thank you," he said, shaking his head.

"You're due in the clinic?" Luna asked, as Umbridge left with a flounce.

"Not for an hour," Harry said. He leaned back in his chair. "I'm going to do some reading, I think. It's been -"

"Mr. Potter?" came a voice at the door. It was Kraeme, back again.

"Yes?" Harry asked, glancing over. He'd been planning to go chat with Professor Quirrell, bringing the captive-in-a-box some more books on tape. He'd been able to make more time for that lately. It was good to have those sorts of conversations again - ones where he didn't have to hold back or go slowly - and he'd be irritated if some nonsense emergency got in the way of that today. It was always some prankster students hoping for his favour, or a small-time warlord testing the Tower's defenses.

"You're needed in Material Methods, sir. One of the goblins showed up, finally, and he wants to speak to you about what's been happening with them," said Kraeme. She looked mildly concerned, which was unusual.

"Fine," said Harry. "I'll be glad to know what's going on in Ackle, that we've gotten to this point. I don't need a group of angry and sullen Beings… we already have the centaurs for that."

"Good luck, Harry," Luna said, heading out the door ahead of him. "Try to get them back… we need them."

"Of course, Luna," Harry said, parting ways with her. He walked down the hall.

As he rounded the corner, though, he was surprised to find a stranger standing there, flanked by several healers from the clinic and six or seven aurors. Umbridge was also standing next to the man, smiling.

"Wha -" said Harry, but the man had already darted forward. Harry jerked back, instinctively. Almost as quickly, he shoved one hand into the opposite sleeve to snatch out his wand. But the man's hand was fast, and it touched his wrist, and it was too late.

"_Egeustimentis_," said the man.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

Harry Potter-Evans-Verres existed. This was true. And there was more of him, elsewhere and here. So much of his being was held back from him, excluded into another place, even as the entirety of his mind was laid out before him and subject to the careful touch of his enemy.

He watched, and felt nothing but idle curiosity.

Harry's mind was laid out in front of him. It shifted from shape to shape in the way of something in a dream, somehow without ever changing while at the same time being in constant flux. He could see hormonal drives, deep impulses, passing memories, flighty sensations, and everything else that made up his cognition, but that knowledge was far from him. He could even see a rigidity that stiffened its way through parts of his mind, a visible Unbreakable Vow that kept his thoughts from ever taking certain shapes… but that sight meant nothing to him. Harry was a speck, a fragment, a mote of consciousness.

A man was there - the man who had touched Harry. His enemy. Harry knew that, somewhere and somehow far away. But it didn't matter. With the flicker of self left to him, Harry observed.

"Hello there, Mr. Potter. You look older than the last time I was able to watch you," said the man. He was of middling height and uncertain ethnicity, with dark skin but an Asian cast to his features. He wore robes of extraordinary simplicity and extraordinary quality. His hair was thinning on top. His eyes were brown, and calm.

"I am Meldh," the man said. "Or so you can call me. It is an old word of my youth."

Harry absorbed this information, and felt it pass through his consciousness, out into the larger part of his mind, where it met with a shiver of doubt. Only a sliver of Harry was aware, though, and it had no room for such complexities as reaction or speech.

"You are safe, Mr. Potter. I am not going to kill you. When we are done, you will be changed, but you will be alive. Do not try to resist. There is no method available to you that would allow you to resist the Lethe Touch. Your Occlumency is a child's toy, more suitable for games than protection. Nor would it be well for the world for you to try to resist… believe me when I say that it is for the good of that world that I act," said Meldh. "Magic must perish, if life is to survive. This is the legacy of Atlantis. This is the legacy of the Prince of Enchanters, Merlin. For years beyond counting, I and others have preserved that legacy. We have moved our pieces as we could, and watched magic fade."

Meldh stepped out through Harry's mind, shifting gently to shoulder his way past rippling curtains of curds that reeked of whiteness. "You are unpredictable and strange, Mr. Potter, so I have left you little of your wakefulness. Who knows what unconventional preparations you might have laid up in your mind, hidden away from our scrying in your Mirror-bound Tower? I take no risks. For now, though, this means we cannot have a conversation. I apologize for that."

He slid his fingers into a white ripple, and parted it. He looked curiously at the parting. "So many unusual ideas... " He smiled. "Here we are. Ah, ah, ah... prophecies are at work? '_Only by seeking the scorpion and the archer, locked beyond return, shall the crux succeed. By this path shall death be defeated for the banished father._' And what does that… ah, I see."

Meldh plucked at a grey burr, and lifted it up for inspection. It drew a tangle of its fellows along, like a springy mat of thorns. Meldh examined the section of burrs. His face changed from curiosity to surprise, as though he'd understood something.

"A clever use of the Spirit Stone, if you have deduced the answer correctly. I admit that this is… clever. Genius, even, considering the way in which you obtained the Stone from our pawn." He shook his head, chuckling. "It is fortunate indeed that I came here, if this was your plan. 'Defeat death'...? What would such an event look like? If you spent even a moment thinking of alternate outcomes or possible interpretations, you would turn away in horror and take your own life. You decided your preferred meaning, and seized it." A pause, as he plucked at nearby bristles and burrs, contemplatively. "Your guilt drives you to these lengths, not your good sense."

Meldh dropped the vinegar-smelling lights in his hands, allowing them to settle back into a glowing three-dimensional web that rippled with pulses of energy. There had been no transition from fibrous thorn-tangle to web of lights, and somehow both were still true. Meldh traced a handful of the web's strands, an acid tang accompanying every pulse of light under his careful fingers, until he reached a bright node.

"Other prophecies… a boy fated to bring down a great house, but that is no matter. This Lawrence boy might just as well fulfill his part by causing the destruction of some noble manor, rather than any great shift in your little political game. Your attempts to change his attitude were a waste of time.

"Ah, here here here…" Meldh said, snatching at a bony protuberance, pulling at it until it stretched like yellowed taffy. It distended from the great knobby mass of bone, and it seemed to impart meaning to the wizard as he worked it with his fingers.

Harry watched from some other place, both here and there. His world was constrained to the moment, as though he were a brute animal. It was shallow and wonderful.

"Yes," he said, "you are the child who will '_tear apart the very stars in heaven_.' And if that is indeed you, then you will also '_rend asunder the fires of the sky_' or _'tear open the eyes of heaven_' and other such phrasings. A nexus of prophecy, all surely referring to one child and one decision. Unmistakable, even to Nell's toppled queen, Dumbledore.

"I suppose you can't be blamed. You have done your best, your very best, with what you had and what you knew. You are master of the world - or at least, you could be master, with a flick of your wrist to bring your opponents into mate. Or near enough to make no matter," Meldh paused for a moment. "Few enough have ever been able to make that boast. Perhaps only Merlin. But your goals have been misguided, even foolish, and you have not made the most of your opportunities. For years now, you have had access to some of the deepest lore. But you have wasted your time on frivolities - 'lifeboats from Earth,' honestly?"

The wizard shook his head, chuckling. He walked to a new place along the outside of the bony mass, and touched a polished knob that stuck out prominently. "Combining the Muggle and magical is not a new thing, despite your arrogance. What has it given you, besides trinkets up high in the air? Let us see."

He pushed the knob aside and scooped his hand into the surface of the bone, distending it as he forced his fingers deeper inside. He drew out a thick handful of whiteish bone, sculpted out in a column by his careful but insistent hand.

"What is this?" He examined the thoughts. "Some mawkish combination of old philosophy and new 'science' and something Merlin once said? Well, all that is…"

There was a heavy pause, a pause as weighty as iron, as Meldh's voice died. He looked stunned by what he'd found. He took a step back, and then he threw up his hands, his face reddening, snapping, "You realized _this_, and you _discarded _the idea?!"

Harry, a mote of pleasant consciousness, observed this anger with distant interest. He could see changes in the whispering rattle of long serrated teeth moving in the immense jaw that now represented his mind; Meldh held one long incisor, but others were moving in a swirl up and down, revealing in some unimaginable fashion that a part of Harry was upset. The mote that was Harry saw himself struggling mightily, and finding no purchase.

"You even believe that you want to keep everyone alive, and I could have credited your good intentions. But you do not even seem to understand the contradiction in the fact that you're willing to sacrifice human lives out of fear of some insanity that will happen in -" Meldh paused and swiped at the large incisor's surface, scrutinizing it. "- a 'googol' of years. It's stupidity of the highest order, and it shows why you are such a threat."

Meldh swept his hand forward, seeming to let release his anger at the same time that he released the enormous tooth in his hand, letting it slide from his grip and settle back into its rattling place. He sighed. "The implications of this… even beyond the practical benefits… ah, but you know so little, ultimately. An idiot genius, placing his pieces on the board with a fool's luck. And how much corruption here, spreading through you like a rot! Tom Riddle within you and Tom Riddle without you, and you becoming more like both."

He shook his head, and placed his hands on his hips, looking down at the gobbets of thick fat that hung in the air all around him. "It is good that I came, though I was afraid. Not only will I stop you from your foolishness, you provide me here with new knowledge a thousandfold beyond what I ever could have hoped. I can find no metaphor from the game of kings… suffice to say that your mad insight will raise me beyond where even centuries of effort has brought me."

The fraction of Harry that was awake, the mild observer, saw motion within itself. A planned uprising of mental discipline - the buried power of years of practice at introspection and systematic thought. He couldn't touch it, and knew it not, but he could observe it.

He had been a creature of the mind for so long. Heuristics and biases, Occlumency and Vows. He was not ancient and was not powerful, but he was a creature of the mind. He was the master of his mind, and no one else.

That distant mind swelled in shudders, setting the constellation of grease into a rhythm. It pulsed and built to a crescendo, striving mightily to take possession of itself. A powerful tremble ran through his entire mind.

Harry and Meldh observed, calmly.

His mind subsided. It became quiet. It conceded.

"First," Meldh said, reaching out to guide two droplets of fat into each other, "we must make some changes. Your Vow might have saved us all before now, and we must be grateful for Tom Riddle's foresight, but it will be all the better when you are wholly mine, instead."

Harry Potter-Evans-Verres observed his master, and felt nothing but idle curiosity.


	47. The Thing with Wings

_KARL: You think you are safe here, in your village utopia? War is upon us! Hear the sound of drums. The enemy approaches in scant minutes, and our hourglass flows so quickly... witness the last of the time! Lords and ladies… I beseech you! Wake up and attend to your own hour of doom! Flee!_

_ERIN: We hear. We understand. But we will not run. We will not abandon Sontag._

"The Last Days of Exses O'Bruinan," by S. Leigh, as staged in the 1979 London production.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_John Snow Center for Medicine and Tower School of Doubt (The Tower)_

_May 18th, 1999_

_One day later_

Draco's office in the Tower was in the rear of the complex, where it had been expanded. He had originally been situated near Material Methods. It might have been quiet there at the moment, with the goblins all shut up and withdrawn into Curd and Ackle, off doing gobliney things (presumably comparing ear length or bathing in rubies). But as soon as the dodgy little blokes were back to work, hammering out more absurdly large golden gloves, then that area would become intolerable: unfortunate smells, clamorous noise, and a horde of chest-high half-elves swarming underfoot in the corridor.

Now he was comfortably ensconced next to the new offices of the Vision Verge, instead. They were almost all wizards and witches, except for the one centaur, and they mostly did quiet things involving lenses and the like. It was uninteresting work - what possible use was there for the tiny Protean-Charmed little toggles they were making? - but also a peaceful little corner of the oft-bustling Tower.

_Dearest Mother_, he wrote, leaning over the parchment on the desk in front of him.

_All is going well - better than we could have hoped. There are plans to reorganize the way the Tower operates, now that a new Receiving Room will be built to accommodate the Ten Thousand. That has meant a second Terminus to be in charge, and a second command structure for it, and now the whole question of who reports to whom has been upended. The Westphalians are all in a clamour about the new addition, as well, and are arguing that the Americas should also have their own Receiving Room. If they win, then simple pride will oblige the construction of a fourth Room for the Free States, Nigeria, and any other African states that join._

_In fact, I believe that the Tower will become a proxy body for the Confederation, which will soon mean, of course, that it will become subject to votes from that body. Potter is a soft touch, and he won't be able to flout the Confederation forever without the excuse of the Independent opposition. That will be an opportunity for many, including us. Good fortune floats into our hand like a ripe dirigible plum._

Draco continued in this vein for some length, setting forth his pretended expectations with just enough vagueness to appear plausible. He laid out a vision of a potential path to power within the Tower - and more importantly, made sure that this vision was transferable: a blueprint for others to follow, as well.

When he was done, he took a parchment razor and notched the lower-left corner of the first page twice, then folded and sealed the packet. Draco would send it to his mother, and she'd know it was meant for others to see. It would be "stolen," and reinforce his efforts at tempting a few choice individuals into the fold.

There was a loud knock at his office door.

Draco looked up, irritated at the interruption. He glanced at the big watch on the wall. He was expecting his "spy" and ally Dolores Umbridge at ten o'clock, but he'd expected to have time to write a genuine dispatch to his mother in addition to the fake one. They'd built something special over these past years with their Honourable, and he had no intentions of letting it - or their relationship with each other - decay. "Who is it?" he asked, curtly.

"There are some who call me… Tim," said a voice from the other side of the door.

"Come in, Longbottom," Draco said, sighing in annoyance.

Neville opened the door, glancing around the room as he stepped inside. At some point in the years since he and Draco had first boarded the Hogwarts Express, Neville had grown tall and handsome. He was a bit gawky, but with an obvious strength in his wiry frame. His eyes were bright and his smile was wide and he was utterly intolerable.

"Harry wanted to know if you had a minute," Neville said. He squinted at a statue in the corner - a beautiful sculpture in gold of a fat-bodied cobra with numerous heads, coils piling up beneath it and a single broad hood loomed behind its heads.

"Fine," said Draco, checking the wall-watch again. He dropped the cover over the inkwell built into his desk and cleared the parchments to one side. He included the fake dispatch among them. He'd send it later.

Neville jerked a thumb in the direction of the statue. "That's new."

"It's from Thailand," said Draco, turning to regard it. "Not a real beast. 'Ananta Shesha,' a fanciful notion of the Muggles… They say that it holds the entire world on its hood."

Neville regarded it closely. There were tiny scales pricked into its surface, and each tiny snake-head wore a delicate crown. "So he's trod down by everyone else, despite all his crowns?" he asked, lightly.

Draco ignored the jab for a moment. He adjusted his robes as he walked around the desk, and he kept his voice mild as he replied, "One day, they say he will uncoil."

Neville scowled as the Slytherin stepped past him and out into the corridor. Draco turned to give him a level look, and spoke over his shoulder, "And then, he'll be all that's left." Draco smiled coolly. "Ananta Shesha: 'that which remains.' "

Not his best work… but then, it was only Neville, who spent most of his day wallowing with Muggles and play-fighting with them.

Draco walked briskly down the corridor, past the Verge, and along the hallway squeezed between the Conjuration Conjunction and Extension Establishment, the latter filled with annoyed people snapping at each other irritably. There had been serious malfunctions in the latest slicebox prototypes. They were intended for the creation of a second pocket world, which would also be put into orbit out past the sky, but they'd been rupturing instead. One researcher had nearly been killed by an accidental backlash that had bisected her at the waist.

He turned left, moving past the entrance to Material Methods, and then pushed open the door to the meeting room, striding on inside. _It's important not just to look like you know what's going on, but to appear to actually be in command of it, _his father had used to say.

There were a few people in the meeting room with Harry. A couple of aurors, Percy Weasley, and Cedric Diggory. No Bones and no Mad-Eye… nothing about the Tower or politics or anything foreign. Probably government...

He considered likely possibilities as quickly as possible as he nodded to those sitting at the table and walked over, past the aurors.

Was this about his mother? No, they'd leave that alone, no matter what. They knew better than to get between Draco and his family. They knew he was a Malfoy above all.

Had one of his minions gotten out of hand? Draco did an inventory of the likely suspects - the lowbrow pawns who'd run most of Knockturn Alley. Gem and his people were in Howard Prison for another three months… Laura Lock and Tallow Enser were still in hiding in Kent and unwilling to come out. That left Jean-Luc Bigby and Mortimer Kainen. They'd been kipps by trade six years ago, collecting loans and insurance. Had they gone back to that and gotten picked up after hexing the wrong person?

Was this more personal? Had they started getting information from Bellatrix, finally - penetrating the unfathomable protection of her insanity?

"Hello, Harry," Draco said, standing behind an empty seat. He rested his hands on it. He waited just a fraction of a second before turning to the other two, saying, "Diggory. Weasley." A gentle reminder of the order of things. "What are we on about this morning?"

"Just the usual, Malfoy," said Cedric, with his customary badly-disguised air of scorn. He'd had difficulty accepting the new reality in the Tower: Draco as ally and not defeated enemy.

Draco smiled a knowing smile, and pulled his chair out. But he didn't sit down, pausing.

There was something wrong.

Draco didn't know what it was, but he knew there was something wrong. He glanced from face to face, again. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but he felt the disquiet in his guts.

_What is it? Is it Mother, after all? No, Harry would tell me in private first, if that were it. Was it a misunderstanding - the uncovering of a "plot" to overthrow Harry, and it's been misunderstood?_

He could see it, now, all of a sudden, as they looked back at him. It was their expressions. Harry and Diggory and Weasley all seemed to have their attention somewhere else. Not as though they weren't paying attention or anything so obvious - but rather, it was as though they were distracted by a noise or presence that he couldn't see. It was subtle… but then, Draco's tutor in the social graces, Master DeCampo, had always said that manipulation was the most delicate dance of all. These were three people struggling with their guilt. He could see it.

_Why do they feel guilty?_

"I think -" Draco began, but he could already feel the presence of the aurors close behind him.

A wand jabbed into his back.

Draco smirked, despite the roiling of his stomach. _Did Harry seriously think I've never considered the possibility of betrayal? "There are only three certainties: death, betrayal, and hag's teeth."_ He'd personally made a portkey to his own office within the Tower. Portkeys couldn't take him outside the facility, but they could travel within its bounds - to a prepared escape cache.

"This is a mistake, Potter," he said. He considered the appropriate _bon mot_ to leave in his wake, and fixed Harry's eyes with his own. Harry looked conflicted, his face uncertain. _Uncommitted. Ultimately, not enough will to carry this out. _Draco felt more confidence at the thought. _This might actually be a good thing._

A hand rested lightly on his shoulder from behind, from someone unseen.

"_Egeustimentis_," he heard.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

After the necessary adjustments, they all sat down together. The Master took Harry's usual seat. They began to discuss what seemed to be the next step.

"Trying to ambush Mad-Eye," said Draco, shaking his head. "It sounds almost like a… like something that is untrue by its very nature."

"A contradiction in terms?" suggested Cedric.

"A paradox?" offered Harry.

Draco nodded at Harry. "A paradox. Like burning water. Or a lucky elf." He shook his head. " 'An ambushed Moody.' Impossible."

"Well, we've hit critical mass, I think," said Harry. "We have enough people to do it, but not so many people that we've been found out. Most of the aurors on shift yesterday and during the night, and everyone on shift today - and now Draco. If we act now, we might even keep it from getting messy." He looked hopefully over at the Master.

"Yes," Meldh said, nodding gently. "The changes I have made are not… subtle. The Lethe Touch takes centuries to master, but even my skill is not enough to disguise such a change in, ah, _priorities_, shall we say?"

Draco nodded in agreement, as well. "I knew something was different when I walked into the meeting. And there's no sense in wasting an asset that might help the Master, later. You're right, we should act immediately."

Harry leaned forward, using one hand to brush the end of his ponytail back over his shoulder. "Is there any risk the Lethe Touch will wear off?" he asked Meldh. "If it has a time limit, we should make sure to set up a schedule - maybe a system to keep an eye on each other." He paused, thoughtfully, and wagged a finger at his Master. "If we're going to help you, you're going to need to start telling us things about what you want and your assets."

Meldh raised an eyebrow. He leaned forward and folded his arms on the table in front of him. He had a mild look on his face - amused curiosity, as though he were looking at children. "Oh?"

"Are you fishing for information, Harry?" asked Cedric, frowning suspiciously.

"Well, yes," said Harry, contemplatively. "It's interesting. I suppose I'd always assumed that mind magic like Imperius would come with an underlying change in personality and methodology. Maybe I've been making comparisons to Muggle techniques that don't serve - things like brainwashing. Instead, it's more like Muggle politics than anything else… the dark side of rationality, where ideas don't have inherent value, but only matter as… as... " He made a gesture. "As soldiers. In politics, whether or not an idea or theory reflects reality is less important than whether it helps or hurts my team."

Meldh's face darkened. He rose from his seat, slowly. "How can you speak this way? How have you defeated the Touch?"

Harry shook his head. "It's not what you think. I serve you above all else, Master Meldh. But you didn't lobotomize me. I'm capable of introspection - I can recognize that the change to my priorities wasn't predicated on rational assessment of the situation." He grinned, good-naturedly. "More knowledge is better, even about yourself. You'd be amazed how many times I've had to talk about this -"

"_Lecture_ about this," Cedric put in, sighing.

"- but it's true," Harry continued, unperturbed. "There's no danger to knowing how your own mind works, including all of the biases that damage your ability to make rational decisions. We're incredibly biased towards acting according to your instructions, Master, and it wouldn't serve you to pretend that's not so."

"It would be less creepy, Harry, if you would just make your peace with it," said Draco, frowning. "Accept that this is the way it is, and don't overthink it."

"No, no," said Harry, quickly. "That's just it! You're conflating the idea of resisting the change in our minds with the idea of _understanding_ it."

"This is not useful," said Meldh, quietly. He'd become mild again, apparently accepting Harry's explanation, and lowered himself back into his seat. "We will finish planning, so that we eliminate all threats. Then we will take the time to prepare our moves for the future… what pieces we keep and what pieces we sacrifice. We will adjust our strategy, so we can move towards my chosen endgame - not your madness of healing Muggles and throwing things into the sky. Magic must have its end."

Harry looked momentarily flummoxed, opening and closing his mouth a few times. Draco smirked, watching. Eventually, Harry found words again, frowning. "Yes, sir." His frown became surprise, as though he'd intended to say something else.

Draco turned his attention back to the Master. "He is due to come in today at some point for an intrusion attempt, since it's an even-numbered day. I suggest we prepare a fake repeater in the clinic, and ask him for help."

"There have been a few people who have been unhappy with their rejuvenation who have tried to convince us to do the process again," Cedric explained. "It's against policy, since it's too time-consuming and it takes time away from others. If a healer is rejuvenating someone for the second or third time, that means there's someone else in actual need of rejuvenation who has to wait in suspension. We had three French wizards who caused a problem about this, a couple of years ago, and backed up the queue so badly that several people came very near to dying. We keep a sharp eye on répéteurs ever since."

"Moody has prepared for this sort of thing," said Harry. "I know for a fact. One of his jobs is to be paranoid about everyone." He stabbed a finger onto the surface of the table. "Even _me_." He turned to Draco. "One level won't be enough. We need levels and levels if we want to have any hope, here."

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

Alastair Moody was waiting until just before midnight. People got sloppy at night - forgot to check their corners, lost track of everyone in the room, and other laxness. He hadn't done a night intrusion on the Tower in months. By that time, they'd be wondering if he'd already managed to get in… they'd start double-checking the patients already in the clinic and verifying the identity of everyone in the halls. Added to their fatigue, it might be the edge he needed to get to Harry and "assassinate" him.

He smiled to himself as he checked the Glenwallace Traps on the doorframes of his house. This was going to be a fun one.

It helped that he was in a good body. A tall and healthy man with a dark complexion and brown eyes - nondescript but usefully vital. There was a lot to be said for the usefulness of sheer physical health when it came to break-ins, although the stealth value of a small child or an obese man wasn't to be shunned.

A small bell rang twice, and Moody frowned. Owl in the hutch. He checked the front door and the windows, and then went to the hutch. It was carrying nothing but parchment, so he opened the swivel-door barrier and let the owl through, and plucked the message free.

_REPEATER IN THE CLINIC. WE NEED A QUIET REMOVAL AND TO MAKE SURE THIS DOESN'T HAPPEN AGAIN. APPLY PERSUASION._

It was signed by Malfoy.

A trick? A trap? Alastair knew where at least 75% of Malfoy's little gang were, and they were almost all neutralized. Assuming he could be wrong by as much as a fifth, and that Malfoy might have gotten leverage over some of the mid-level aurors - maybe a Terminus on duty - or maybe Malfoy himself had been suborned by a larger operation or a powerful individual, maybe the Three. Or just an attempt to curry favor. Or rather, more subtle: an attempt to appear as though he were currying favor, so as to be taking an obvious hopeless action in a safe way while putting forth another plan.

Might also be the Chinese or Americans, making a try now that they had their foot in the door. He wouldn't put it past that lousy little Hig, who was all helpful and sweet now that the Westphalians had what they wanted.

It was also just barely possible that there was no ulterior motive to the situation or message. He chuckled out loud at the thought.

Alastair snatched some leaves of parchment from the writing desk near the hutch and wrote three terse messages in his crooked and crabbed hand, ordering a change in the shift commanders at the RCP and the Ministry, and sending a further letter to a cold-drop. Unlikely Malfoy or anyone else could have sway enough to manage every single shift commander. He sealed them with a hasty Verification Charm to match his wand, and sent them on their way.

He checked the Glenwallace Traps again, and the other Dark Detectors while he was at it. Then Alastair pulled on his gear and checked it over. He studied his appearance in the glass for a long moment, but he looked safely ordinary.

The safest way would be to Apparate to the Ministry and then take a secure Flue, but they'd be expecting that and it would, ironically, make him more identifiable. No, as so often, the best way was the more direct and fastest. A Safety Stick.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

It had looked wrong, right from the start.

Alastair walked into the clinic from the Receiving Room to find a repeater, all right - someone with the unblemished skin and youth of the rejuvenated. He was arguing in the middle of the clinic with a healer, who was calmly trying to redirect the repeater back into a cubicle.

But there were also seven aurors.

There was not any reason for there to be seven aurors. That was far too many. The three on shift here would have been sufficient, and an additional one from the Receiving Room would have been an abundance of caution. Sending four aurors in as reinforcement for a minor difficulty like this wasn't just a waste of resources: it would actually cause the very problem that they tried to avoid when repeaters showed up. Repeaters needed to be soothed, reassured, and sent on their way without a fuss.

Protocol was well-known. More than that, it was just common sense. And these weren't new aurors to the Tower, either, he noticed. They were old hands; people with experience, and no known ties to any other power that he knew. But here they were, where they shouldn't be, all standing in bunches.

Time to address the likelihood that this was a Malfoy trap for him (or a trap by someone else).

Alastair backed out of the clinic and turned to the auror standing farther down the corridor, the one he'd just passed. "Pirrip!"

The idiot turned. "Sir?" He'd just cleared Alastair mere moments ago, exchanging passwords.

"Go tell Harry that there's something very suspicious with the repeater in the clinic. Then come back at speed. Bring another hand with you - someone with battle experience," Alastair barked, sharply. He waited just long enough to see Pirrip on the jump, then turned and strode back into the clinic.

But scarcely was he inside before he heard a scream. He whirled to see that Pirrip hadn't even made it out of sight down the corridor - the young auror was down, thrashing on the ground. Gutclench Curse or something similar.

Almost without thinking, Alastair sidestepped to the right, and without a pause charged into motion, out of the clinic. Behind him, he could hear voices shouting and spells being cast. Not all focused on him - whatever this was, he still had allies. He barely thought about his reactions as he raised the purplish light of Azarian Fire behind him, throwing himself to the side once he was clear of the doorway to the clinic. The Fire erupted behind him with a rush of smoke, and he took the opportunity to crouch low and lean back around the doorway, snatching at the goblin-silver door just to one side. A spray of Bertram Bolts sizzled through the air over his head as he hauled at the door, and it smoothly slid into place.

He needed to get to Harry. Alastair took off at a dead run.

He didn't pause over Pirrip, not even breaking stride as he sprinted down the corridor over the lad. He spared a look to his right as he went past the entrance, but he could already see that the Receiving Room aurors had sent two of their number to assist him (traitors to stab him in the back? No, Madagascar and Nimue hated each other, that hate was more reliable than most things) and so he could rely on the alert being raised.

Down past the Advancement Agency, still sprinting, plucking a potion from his belt with his free hand and dropping it behind him, Alastair cursed. Whoever was behind this was causing chaos, but how could they think they'd win? That they'd get control of the Tower - they didn't even know what the Tower really was, or what happened here. Did they think to learn the "special webs" that made "Tower Transfiguration" possible here? Had they figured out the Stone… were they just trying to steal that? Moody hoped that Harry had his wits about him, and that he'd put on one of the decoy gloves as soon as he was threatened. The decoys each had a fragment of an ancient and ruined cup embedded in their palm, where the Stone went in the real glove - if anything was stolen, let it be one of them.

But it was much worse than he thought. Charging around the corner, taking the turn at a momentary crouch, wand raised, he saw that they'd already gotten to Harry_ oh Merlin oh no -_

Harry was on the ground, and a knife was buried in his chest. Blood was spreading around him.

_\- check behind, nothing, run forward, call for help, two bringing up the rear to watch your back -_

There was so much blood already, was the boy already dead? His shoes were wrong. He had to be saved, he had to be saved, there was no one who could take his place, not really.

_\- move to the side, wand up, there's someone Disillusioned, see the shimmer, no bother with removal, wide-angle attack, get down -_

He dropped into a crouch again and raised his wand to Vom Tag, reaching out with his mind. He focused his will into the necessary shape and pushed away from him the thought of a grandmother's eyes and sparkling blue lights. It was devilishly tricky to aim, but he just needed to get it _out there_ and he felt with relief the rush of arctic wind as it swept in a torrent away from his fingers, ripe with cold.

He brought up more Azarian Fire in front of him almost in the same breath, but never took his eye off the corridor. The blur of distortion that was his enemy made a movement, redirecting his attack. A skillful turn. Foolish to do it so well, they revealed too much about their style. Possibly meant to tempt him into overconfidence.

\- _no time for this, no time no time, use the arch you can make it secret again later like the last time -_

Alastair whipped three rapid-fire curses at his opponent, buying a half-second to reach into his robes. He felt the metal ring in its pocket, and snatched it free. Lunging to the side, he snapped his wand forward, shouting a curse powerful enough that his own ears ached from the pressure of its passage.

And he hurled a metal ring at his enemy, urging it to work. He needed it to work. He needed it to _save Harry_.

The Arch of Ulak Unconquered, the most perfect prison ever devised, swelled impossibly as it sailed through the air. Within moments it had ceased to be a thing of physical reality, and had become a force of nature, transforming from a slender metal ring into a burnished hoop the size of a man.

Alastair's foe was fast: he had time to try two full spells as the Arch flew at him. Both spells, a rush of wind and a blaze of fire, were swallowed by the Arch so thoroughly that they might never have existed. The Arch was a thing unyielding and unknowable - the last sanction of Alastair Moody, the reserve he retained against any betrayal.

And then the Arch dropped down around the enemy, and the enemy was gone. There was only the empty metal hoop of the Arch resting on the stone, and Alastair brandishing his wand, and the aurors on his heels, and a dying Harry Potter-Evans-Verres. Whose shoes were wrong.

Whose shoes were wrong.

_Trap_.

There was only a moment between the realization and unconsciousness, but that moment was long enough for Alastair to understand. A fake enemy. A fake Harry. A fake attack. Everyone was in on it. Everyone had betrayed him. Everything had gone wrong. And he had no more tricks left.

_Constant vigila_

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

After Moody was theirs, the two aurors took away Kraeme's body, still transfigured into the shape of Harry. On Meldh's instructions, they put it in the clinic for the moment, until arrangements could be made. The Arch was more difficult. Moody himself had to whisper arcane words to it before he could lift it, releasing Cedric from a prison so complete that the Head Auror had not even been aware of the passage of time.

Everyone took a moment to recover.

But only a moment.

"Now, then," said Meldh, turning to Harry. The Tower was blinking away tears, but with awkward shakes his his head that suggested he wasn't aware of it. "I believe now is an excellent time to visit a certain black box. There is a threat we need to address… and I think on a more permanent basis than you are willing to do."

Harry felt an ache within himself, but no conflict within his will. The new arrangement of his mind carried him forward, as inexorably as a satellite sailing through space, and he nodded readily.

It was time to visit Voldemort.


	48. Pithos

_[The goblin warlord CRAD THE CALLOW and two ATTENDANTS enter, stage left. CRAD, a loathsome beast with a foaming mouth, wears filthy animal skins and a necklace of wizard teeth. His hands are covered in blood. His ATTENDANTS are dressed in similarly barbaric regalia, and each carries bright torches. They stand before ERIN and KARL, triumphant.]_

_CRAD: Look at the princess! Now that I, Crad, the revenging angel of goblinkind, has come to spill wizard blood… now she cowers! This is the price your people pay for their crimes. It is natural for vengeance to follow foul deeds, as one season follows another... and this is my harvest season… and your season of death!_

_ERIN: I am a noble witch of Britain, sir, and I do not cower. That is a thing for beasts._

_KARL: [Boldly] And goblins._

_CRAD: [Gnashes his teeth and jumps up and down, waving his arms.] Still you defy me, though this miserable village lies in ashes?! Though every beast lies dead, and even the flax smolders in the fields?!_

_KARL: We do._

_ERIN: And so shall we ever. The choice between right and wrong is as clear as the difference between night and day. And if there were aught others to witness this, perhaps in some later day, then I would declare to them that they need only use their eyes to tell the difference between good and evil! And what seeing wizard, witnessing the ugliness and needless cruelty of evil, could fail to promise to seek the good of their own kind?_

\- "The Last Days of Exses O'Bruinan," by S. Leigh, as staged in the 1979 London production.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_John Snow Center for Medicine and Tower School of Doubt (The Tower)_

_May 18th, 1999_

_The same day_

"Why did you keep this place a secret to so many, Mr. Potter?" asked Meldh, calmly. He glanced around the small room as they emerged from a nightmarish corridor of traps and wards and locks - including even a five-minute waiting period that considerably amused Meldh.

The room was still sparsely furnished. There were stacks of cassette tapes and several auto-players sitting in a thick mass of Lovegood Leaf. There was a small wooden stool, with a yellow legal pad and mechanical pencil set upon it.

There was a black box.

Harry didn't answer for a moment, glancing over at the box, which remained silent. He walked over to the auto-players instead, where a quiet voice was reading a book-on-tape aloud. Harry bent down and turned it off, and the recorded sentence was strangled mid-word: "His professions might be sincere; but in the situation where fortune had placed him, it was scarcely poss-"

"Mr. Potter?" prompted Meldh.

"This is the second Tower," Harry said. "Before this, there was another facility… one that was part of Hogwarts. There was… an attack. A powerful wizard who had been driven insane with grief. He said that he wanted us to bring back his child, but I think it was a form of suicide for him. He'd planned it - arranged for a message to be sent from the future to stop us from using Time-Turners to stop him. He killed Hermione. Killed her phoenix."

Harry sighed. "At that time, I'd transfigured Voldemort into a small stone, so that I didn't have to kill him. But during the attack, Hermione threw me to safety, and when I landed, I lost the ring. And it was then that I realized that if I'd been seriously hurt or killed… well, Voldemort could have awakened or been freed, with the Philosopher's Stone right at hand. Moody had warned me of this before, and we'd taken additional measures, but… well, that plan wasn't going to work. Of all the possible solutions to keeping hold of him, I'd been taking one of the riskiest possible. So I set to work finding a solution. It was easier than I'd thought… many wizards in the past had worked on transferring or creating consciousness in artificial environments, enough to be actually worrying. This form of mandrake, when properly prepared, holds his consciousness. But I knew that many people wouldn't share my ethics about going to such lengths - that they might prefer more lethal solutions."

"I see," mused Meldh. They both looked at the box for a moment, contemplatively. Voldemort remained silent.

"You are mistaken, though, Mr. Potter," Meldh added. "It was we who sent that message. We'd known the gentleman for some time, after he intruded on our meeting place. An early attempt at an intervention in your affairs. Ineffective, I'm afraid… but perhaps that's for the best, now that I consider the matter in hindsight."

Harry's eyes were closed, and he staggered to the side. He clutched for the wall but fell short, dropping to one knee. He gasped, "Killed Granville… so many people… sir, I can't… I'm sorry…"

Meldh shook his head and smiled kindly. He walked over to Harry and bent down, putting a comforting hand on the young man's back. "It's all right, just give it a moment. This is my fault, I'm afraid… I have changed very little in you. Just your… ah, there is no word. Just your _telos_. The most important things for you. So there is some conflict. But my alterations cannot be overcome. Fear not."

"Fear," said Voldemort, suddenly. Meldh turned his head sharply and stood up straight at the sound, but did not appear alarmed. As ever, his expression was pleasant. It suited the older man well.

"I am not aping you," continued the voice from the box in neutral male tones. "That is a suggestion."

Meldh didn't respond immediately. Instead, he walked closer, scrutinizing the black box. After a moment, he said, "I do not accept your suggestion, but thank you for it. You are Tom Riddle? Or is it the more recent name - Professor Quirrell - that you go by?"

"I have had many names," said Voldemort. "Please address me as best suits you."

"Very well, Lord Voldemort," said Meldh, smiling. "I am a visitor to the Tower. You may call me Meldh - an old word from my youth."

There was a pause, then Voldemort said, "Your implication is obvious. But that is not a credible lie. I will thank you not to insult my intelligence, Meldh, if we are to speak."

"Oh?" asked Meldh, raising his voice slightly to be heard over Harry's gasping sobs, as the young man struggled to control himself.

"While I do not know if my faculties have been affected by this prison, I am not yet a gibbering moron," said Voldemort. "Accordingly, I am not credulous enough to accept the existence of such antiquity without rather more proof than that. It is apparent that you have directly interceded to enforce your will on Mr. Potter in some manner. Such an intervention would come at some risk, no matter your abilities. If you took even the most miniscule of risks regularly, even only once in the span of each century, then it is not credible that you would be here, alive. Fate is fickle." The voice from the box formed an artificial chuckle. "On that, you may take my word."

"Interesting," said Meldh, pleasantly. He did not comment further, but tilted his head to one side. He lifted one palm and stretched it to the box, and whispered some words with syllables as harsh as knives.

After some time, Meldh lowered his palm and raised his eyebrows. "Ah. This box. There used to be three of these. I do not know if the others survive. But this is well. Destroying this one will ensure that, even if the others exist, they are useless for their other purposes." He smiled, gently. "Kári Orden would be amused to see one of her boxes used as a zoo." He leaned forward, reaching out his hand as though to touch the box. He stopped short, however, his palm held over the fine black surface. A whisper of red light flickered across the box's surface.

"You little tyrants have always been useful. You swirl like a whirlwind, drawing lore and devices into your chaotic storm. You kill off rivals, steal items of power, and break open hidden hoards. And eventually, thanks to a hero - and sometimes with the help of the Lethe Touch or the Ritual of Home or the Dustukhíascue - you and much of what you've gathered are destroyed." Meldh straightened back up, smiling again. "You do the world much good with your attempted evil."

Across the small room, Harry was gathering himself to his feet, finally. His face was reddened with emotion, and his hair had come loose across his shoulders. He looked as though he'd been to war.

"You are here to end me," said Voldemort.

"Oh, yes," said Meldh.

"Then I am in the most enjoyable position of advantage. All roads lead to my will. That has not been the case for some time," said Voldemort. "You will forgive me for taking some pleasure in the situation."

"Sir, he has cast a unique spell - a new version of the Horcrux spell," said Harry. His voice still sounded strained, but he was upright and trying as hard as possible to help. "If he is killed, or manages to kill himself, or even if he is simply returned to a human brain that the spell recognizes, then his spirit will be free to resurrect in another place. We developed a way to detect the Horcrux network and have destroyed many of them, but many others still remain… including at least one that is far beyond our means at the moment."

"My contingencies are numerous, laid over the course of many years and reinforced during the year of my return," said Voldemort. The bland voice conveyed a hint of mockery, somehow. "With the Goblet of Fire and the Resurrection Stone, two of the most potent artifacts still in existence, I have laid my traps."

Meldh nodded, smiling pleasantly, and glanced back at Harry. "Is that so, Mr. Potter?"

"No, sir. As far as I can tell, Voldemort never had access to the Goblet of Fire, despite what he says," Harry said, slowly. Voldemort made no reply or contradiction. "It is locked away in the Department of Mysteries… they consider it Cadmean Class: too dangerous to use or research. It was kept in a vault that is inside of some sort of magical lake or pond or something - some security to put it beyond everyone's reach without the Line of Merlin - and it has been there for many years, since they stopped holding the Triwizard Tournament. Even I've never seen it, although I did spend some time looking for its companion device - or the pieces of it, anyway." Harry held up his left hand, clad like the other in a fingerless glove, and tapped the smooth round decoration that was slightly raised from its palm. "Ancient and powerful enough to be effective decoys for the real Philosopher's Stone." Harry paused, thoughtfully, and a drop of sweat trickled down the side of his face. He added, "But I suspect that the Professor only said this because he wanted that information, since he anticipates going free once killed."

"And will he, Mr. Potter?" asked Meldh, gently.

"Some time ago, some researchers with the Tower and the Unspeakables - Mafalda Hopkirk, Dolores Umbridge, Luna Lovegood, Basil Horton, and Nemeniah Salieri - adapted a Dark Detector to be extremely sensitive and able to detect even the weakest of magical energies. It didn't have much initial use, since in any magical area, the background magical energies would swamp it. But more recently, we developed that," Harry answered, pointing at the Lovegood Leaf. "It consumes ambient magic in the air. It's proven to be useful in allowing us to employ Muggle devices alongside magical ones, sir, but when combined with thaumometers, we are able to trace even very faint magical connections such as Floo networks... or a network of Horcruxes. He has many… but he is now separate from all of them except the Resurrection Stone, since they are all outside of the Tower. This is a world apart. But while the Resurrection Stone or any other Horcrux is present in the Tower within the Mirror... yes, he could go free. It is best not to kill him, sir."

"These are things I saw in Mr. Potter's mind, Lord Voldemort, and all quite true," said Meldh, turning back to the box. "You might understand why I was interested, since you have correctly divined that I… implied a rather greater age than is strictly accurate."

There was a long pause.

"Lord Foul," said Voldemort.

"Archon Heraclius Hero," corrected Meldh, still smiling. "But yes, I am known to history as the 'Slithering One' or 'Lord Foul,' thanks to the very effective tales of four famous witches and wizards."

Harry was staring openly at Meldh, awe and disgust and pain all in combat on his face. "You're Herpo the Foul… who invented the Horcrux spell? Who fought Rowena Ravenclaw, Godric Gryffindor, Salazar Slytherin, and Helga Hufflepuff?"

"Yes. Good people, all - or rather, well-intentioned. But even then, in my youth, I saw further than such as they. I knew the dangers of will-work - broaching other worlds and inviting them into our own. Even then, I could not understand why so few wizards understood the lessons of Atlantis." Meldh shook his head, ruefully. "The great school of Hogwarts had been prophesied - indeed, prophecy was perhaps the very thing that led those four to band together, for what else but great glory and great threat could have done so? - and so I attempted to intervene. A mighty stronghold of magical education and research was not in the best interests of the world, and I wished to save us all," said Meldh, agreeably and without a trace of pride.

"You failed and died, if the stories are true," said Voldemort.

"Yes. But I was not gone, thanks to some precautions. And my efforts were noticed by another," replied Meldh. "But of that we shall not speak."

"Very well," said Voldemort. "Then your purpose remains the same? I wonder if Mr. Potter is still able to appreciate the irony? Are you intact in there, behind this spell of control?"

"The Lethe Touch," said Meldh, helpfully, smiling again.

"I have read of it," said Voldemort curtly. "So, Mr. Potter - do you see the irony?"

"Yes, Professor," said Harry, closing his eyes once more and wrapping his arms around his stomach. "It's me. And I can see the irony."

"What is the irony?" asked Meldh, curious.

"We have the same goals - maybe even many of the same values, sir," said Harry. "Or rather, I have one goal now, to serve you as best I can, but before -"

Meldh shook his head and waved his hand dismissively. "I understand, it's all right," he said. "You mean that we both wish to save the world."

"And yet you fundamentally disagree, Mr. Potter. It is not a question of truth or evidence, is it?" asked Voldemort. "You have the same purpose in the same world, and yet you disagree. And how was that disagreement resolved?"

"With force," said Harry, reluctantly. "My mind was altered against my will."

Meldh glanced with interest back and forth between Harry and the box. "I do not understand the messages hidden beneath the surface, here, but I have observed your minions often enough, Mr. Potter, to know that you have no objection to force. You have several individuals in your employ whose efforts are directed almost exclusively to force - stunning Muggles and providing them with new memories as you deem fit."

"Weaponizing cognitive dissonance," said Harry, nodding again, even more reluctantly. "But the Professor is offering me a lesson on dominance, not ethics."

"I see," said Meldh. "Well then, I believe we have spent enough time at this. Enough time here." He adjusted the front of his simple robes, and looked around them. "This is a threat that you did not have the heart to end - a threat that you still call 'Professor.' A threat that has managed to worm within your heart and mind, despite being imprisoned and powerless. The world has nothing to gain from this creature's existence, and much to lose." Meldh did not appear saddened by his words, but neither did he seem happy - or even cold. Rather, he spoke with a quiet and inoffensive resignation. "Unless you have something else you wish to say, Lord Voldemort?"

"Will you entertain argument?" asked Voldemort, calm in his own right.

"I will listen to anything you wish to say, but no, I will not change my mind," said Meldh. "I am sorry. You are too dangerous, and your restraints are too uncertain. My purpose has not changed since the fields of Alto Alentejo, among the broken marble of Estremoz, where I led my tarasque and Dementors in a great battle against four titans from prophecy. Neither the double death of a Hero and his name, that day, nor the long passage of millennia since have altered my purpose, which I have sought in a thousand different ways on a thousand different days. I will not give you a cruel and false hope. Your fate awaits, and will not change."

"I see," said Voldemort.

Harry's hair was wild, half-covering his face. Some strands stuck to one cheek, wet with tears.

"Then let me say this," said Voldemort, speaking with leaden seriousness. "It is not too late."

Meldh smiled, but didn't reply. He listened.

"Truly," Voldemort went on, "you even now have the chance for an equitable and peaceful solution. If you undo your control of Mr. Potter and his little friends, he will not seek vengeance for what you have done. Astoundingly and against all sense, he will be willing work with you - to find a path forward. He believes he is a hero, and he believes heroes must always show mercy and seek the path of nonviolence where possible. He is not troubled by the conflict between effectiveness and mercy that is obvious to you and me.

"To all appearances, you have found an easy victory here. That should be the most obvious of warning signs. Mr. Potter's footsteps are littered with the corpses of those who once thought him their catspaw. And I assure you, as a ragged and trapped spirit who once opposed him, that Mr. Potter's cataclysms are all the more terrible for their lack of malice. His cruelty is beyond even my own imaginings, for it results from misguided mercy… and should you be so fortunate as to survive, you will not even have the consolation of hate.

"Take my advice, old one. Relent. Recant. Retreat."

Meldh waited to be sure Voldemort was done, then mildly replied, "I think not." He sounded amused at the thought. "Your kindness is appreciated, however. Why not simply enjoy the thought that the boy will destroy me in due course? He himself has no knowledge of any such plans, I assure you, but why do you show such benevolence?"

Voldemort laughed. It was a cold, mocking laugh, twisting the limits of the generic male voice. For just a moment, it sounded exactly like the Professor Quirrell that once was: cynical and clever, cruel and caustic. A broken man who was without joy or love, and who found solace only the cold pleasure of ambition fulfilled and dominance achieved. Mentor and monster.

"I am offering you fair warning and a peaceful alternative," Voldemort said, and there was triumph in his words. "If you truly do not understand that these words are the greatest damage I can do to you, then you will deserve your fate."

"I hope that you find comfort in such thoughts," said Meldh, softly. He turned to Harry. "Do what we discussed, please, Mr. Potter. The world is more important than sentiment."

"Yes, sir," Harry said. He pulled his wand out of his sleeve. He and Meldh both walked over to the entrance to the extended space - the narrow corridor buzzing with traps and wards.

Harry pulled a lump of tungsten from his pocket. _"Geminio_," he cast on it, twirling his wand over its surface. One lump became two, and after a moment, that became four, then there were seven, then twelve, then twenty. Within seconds, metal began to clatter from Harry's palm. He tossed what was left in his hand across the room, scattering it, and the tungsten continued replicating itself even as it flew through the air: thirty-three, fifty-four, eighty-eight, lumps of metal raining down, cracking loudly on the stone and a black box that shivered with red light.

Harry and Meldh stepped back into the corridor, and Meldh gestured at the door. Thin blue crystal grew from the ceiling and floor, covering the entrance. It was translucent, and through its cerulean screen the two wizards watched as the room rapidly filled with replicating metal. Normally, it would decay and vanish before too long. But the Philosopher's Stone, embedded in Harry's right glove, could make it permanent. It was not a trick he'd often used, since it threatened the illusion of "special Transfiguration webs" that they used to explain the feats of the Tower healers.

After a very short time, there was no more room left in the small chamber beyond the blue crystal. The replicating metal filled all available space. The two wizards could no longer see anything but a blue-tinted irregular wall of metal. Harry ended the Gemino Curse with a touch of his will, lowering a trembling wand to his side. His teeth were gritted, and the back of his robes was dark with sweat.

Meldh folded his arms, and they stood there, quietly. Gently, the older wizard asked, "Would it help you to take a moment?"

"Yes, sir," said Harry, laboriously. "I'm sorry… it's difficult to manage my feelings." He shuddered and wrapped his arms around his stomach, clutching himself and bending over slightly.

"I understand," Meldh said. He reached forward and touched the blue crystal screen with one finger, and an opening appeared - no more than a palm-span wide. A few chunks of tungsten fell through and free, but the pressure from above kept most of them in place.

Harry tried to stand up straight and raise his wand, but shuddered again, bending back over. He gasped, "I just… I'm…"

"Let me help you," Meldh said. Gently, he lifted Harry's arm, raising it until the wand in the young man's grip was at the level of the hole in the screen. "You may say goodbye, if you wish."

"Goodbye, Professor!" Harry screamed.

His face reddened as he screamed it again - screamed it as loudly as he could.

"Goodbye, Professor! Goodbye! I'm sorry!"

_Screamed_ the words... to try to be heard through the mass of metal, to try to be heard through everything.

There was a reply. It should have been impossible, really. Harry had cast the Thoughtsay Ritual himself, following the dictates of parchment scrupulously, and it should not have been able to get so _loud_. But it happened, nonetheless, by whatever trick or manipulation. And that reply was not forgiveness or kindness or pleading.

It was scorn.

"Bah!" howled Lord Voldemort with a cold laugh, a last word of mockery and hatred, and then the voice failed with a warble and squeal of magical sound.

There was silence.

Meldh frowned. "No grace, even now. A sad end. Do it," he commanded.

Harry closed his eyes and touched his wand to the pieces of tungsten in the room. After a moment, they gently slipped out of shape, flowing together, forming a solid mass - an immense plug of metal, filling almost the whole room and burying Voldemort in a metal coffin ten feet thick.

Then Harry lifted his other hand and pressed his gloved palm to the surface of the metal.

And that was the story of Tom Riddle.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_Hermione's Mobile Mary, Powis Castle, Wales_

_May 19th, 1999_

_The next morning_

Hermione awoke with tears on her face. She'd been dreaming of Granville. She could hear the echo of his cry still - hear the joy of it.

"Hermione?" said Esther, pushing open the door to the Mobile Mary gently, peering inside the darkened space. Morning sunlight was visible outside, bright on the gardens of Powis. "Sorry, but there's a message for you from Harry. You asked to be woken? Are you all right?"

Wiping her face on her sleeve, Hermione nodded, sniffling. She sat up. "Yes… just a bad dream. What does Harry want?"

Esther held up a parchment. "Nothing serious, it seems like… he just wants you to come around. Says he has someone he wants you to meet."


	49. Commentarii de Bello

_CRAD: Now you understand that these are the deadly years for wizards. [Throws KARL's bloodstained necklace onto the ground in front of ERIN.] The metamorphosis of the world has begun… no more the plaything of the tall and beautiful!_

_[The remaining ATTENDANT takes notice, abandoning the corpse of his friend. He jumps up and down with joy, yelling and grimacing with savagery and waving his torch.]_

_ERIN: The Lady O'Bruinan will save me._

_CRAD: [Strikes her across the face with a bloody hand. It leaves a mark of blood across her face. The blood is a symbol of violence.] Fool! I have destroyed Sontag, and should the aged Lady appear in my arena, here, I shall show her a taste of armageddon… as I did your mad lover!_

_[EXSES enters from stage right with a clamour of thunder, clad all in gold. In her left hand is a wand, and in her right is a spear.]_

_EXSES: I am come! I have seen the terrors you have wrought upon my people of Sontag, and I have brought my vengeance!_

_[CRAD and ATTENDANT cower back from EXSES. CRAD seizes ATTENDANT and pushes him at EXSES. She strikes him down with her spear, and there is another clamour of thunder.]_

_ERIN: My Lady! I never lost hope!_

_CRAD: No, no, no!_

_[CRAD wails and strips off his necklace of wizard teeth, flinging it to the ground. It lands next to KARL's necklace.]_

_EXSES: Yes! I will bring the goblins low for their crimes, a deserved punishment for their deeds! [She raises her spear, holding it high.] Thus do I condemn them: let them scrape in metal and toil in tin! Let them fear to raise their heads, lest those heads be struck from their shoulders! The blood of Sontag demands it - and let all know their just reward for such bloody deeds as have been done this day!_

_[CRAD collapses, wailing. ERIN inclines her head, and leans down to pick up KARL's necklace. She pauses, and then brings her delicate foot down upon CRAD's necklace, ruining it. ALL exit.]_

_[The stage darkens, and a spotlight focuses on CRAD's necklace. It is a symbol of hubris.]_

\- "The Last Days of Exses O'Bruinan," by S. Leigh, as staged in the 1979 London production.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_John Snow Center for Medicine and Tower School of Doubt (The Tower)_

_May 19th, 1999_

_The same day_

"There," said Meldh, lifting his hand from Harry's wrist. "Think back, and see if you can remember anything."

Harry shut his eyes, standing silently. It was very quiet in the blank span of corridor where they stood, near the rear of the Tower - there were no distractions.

After a while, Harry opened his eyes again. "No, sir. I can't remember anything about where Voldemort might be. And I seem to remember all about the Tower departments, otherwise. There's no obvious gap that might provide a clue." He paused. "Thank you, sir, for leaving me with everything else."

"It seemed cruel to take all of that away from you," said Meldh, nodding.

"Thank you, sir," said Harry, smiling. His smile faded, though, as he said hesitantly, "Sir, before we go back to the others, I think we should talk about your succession to my place - at least in the broad strokes, so I can begin thinking about how to help. I know that you believe the Lethe Touch to be infallible, but there's no reason to risk it. It's basic information hygiene."

Meldh waved a hand, dismissively. "There is no concern. I will take your identity and you will become a new person. We will alter the trajectory you have chosen for the world, using the tools you have put at my command."

"No, sir," Harry said, shaking his head. "There are serious problems there. For one, the new terminal values you've given us are too…" He fumbled for words. "There's too much internal conflict, sir. It shows on our faces, and it will lead to strange behavior at some point. It will be like an Asimov story with the Three Laws… outside observers will be able to deduce from aberrant behavior that there are new underlying rules. Many people are very loyal to me, but no one is _absolutely _loyal, to the extent where my will and wishes are their most important goals."

"We have taken dozens of your allies here, but I have set up a pressure within them," Meldh said. "They are enchanted in the same fashion as yourself, but there is a capacity for release by recasting the Touch and adding -"

"No!" said Harry, abruptly, holding up his hand. "I don't need to know! Information hygiene." Sheepishly, he lowered his hand, smiling a bit. "Sorry, sir, but there's no need to tell me the command word… it can't possibly help. Yes, you can trust me absolutely, right now, but what if I were to get free somehow? The best weapon you'd have in that situation would be your control of almost all of my closest friends… I'm going to be substantially weaker if any attack on you risks killing Draco or Moody - or even if your death would just leave all of my friends as your servants, forever."

"Do not worry, Mr. Potter," said Meldh, kindly. "There is no risk that you will go free. No one has ever defeated the Lethe Touch by sheer willpower, and there is no spell known to you or any of your allies that could dispel the enchantment. We now possess the only real trust that can ever exist between two people."

"What about my Unbreakable Vow, sir?" asked Harry. "It's an obvious problem… what if you ask me to do something that might destroy the world?"

Meldh folded his hands in his sleeves. "You will not be able to comply, of course. But the results would be the same if I asked you to fetch me a Lethifold's smile- you could not do it, but neither would the Touch fail. I spent some time examining your mind, Mr. Potter, and I assure you that there is no power known to you that poses a threat to me."

Harry fell silent, and leaned back against the wall of the corridor. Meldh waited, patiently. After a time, Harry spoke up again, saying, "When I think about possible contingency plans for something like this, it seems obvious I would have prepared something and stored the memory in a Pensieve, or just erased it with such care as to leave no traces. Of course, if I thought of a contingency once, I should be able to think of it again, so it would also be necessary to erase the memories that led me to the plan in the first place."

"Then we're no better off for the wondering," said Meldh, chuckling mildly. "You cannot worry or defend against the unknown, since it can take any shape. The key to great strength is defending against every known, whether it appears a threat or not, and staying _hidden_ from the unknown."

"I disagree, sir. It's possible to plan for the unknown - you can make a path for it or put in place some contingency that embraces a host of possibilities. And I am fairly sure that I must have at least _tried_ to do so. The way magic works, it was never an outlandish idea that someone old and powerful might show up and take offense. I knew for certain that people like Nicholas Flamel were out there. Given the long history of the world and the fact that magic was once much more powerful, it was actually more likely than not that there would be some immortals out there." Harry shrugged. "I should have perhaps even foreseen you yourself, sir. The inventor of the Horcrux spell? It seems obvious, in retrospect. Maybe I _did_ foresee it, actually."

Meldh looked amused. "You and Voldemort share the same opinion of your abilities. You will forgive me for saying that I do not, Mr. Potter. My victory was not a difficult one, and cost scarcely even a pawn's worth of trouble."

Harry shrugged. "That seems suspicious to me, sir." Then he opened his mouth, as though to go on speaking, but made no sound. He grimaced and shook his head, accidentally rapping it against the wall and wincing.

Meldh watched him, and replied to the unaskable question. "No, Mr. Potter," he said gently. "I do not think it is necessary to kill you now, out of fear of some possible trap you've laid. Rather, I will need your help.

"Once I take my place as the new Mr. Potter, you will be by my side in some altered shape, as an adjunct and adviser," he said. "I will release all others - they will continue to serve 'you,' and the Tower will move in a new direction to _decisively_ end magic. Your Muggle knowledge will be turned to proper ends… without your foolishness." He chortled, amiably. "Some things can even be done immediately, to help stave off the end of the world and its people. There is at least one new ritual we may enact, based on your knowledge. To think what you would have let go to waste - for the sake of some distant bits of fire!"

Harry looked at the ground, his face uncomfortable. "Sir, I considered it to be immoral, especially when there are alternatives that don't increase entropy in the universe so much. And…" Harry fumbled over his words clumsily, as though many ideas were fighting for expression at the same time. "And many stars have the possibility of life, either now or in the future, and that risk is so apocalyptically bad that it overwhelms any benefit to an individual life here, and when we reach the second type on the Kardashev scale we'll then be confronted with a loss of useful energy on a scale of… of… well, I don't even know how to make a comparison! Obviously it would be like sacrificing our own Sun, but… well, it would be like a wiping out every scrap of phoenix flame that ever existed and could ever exist, all to save one person."

His voice wasn't rising, but it was filled with strange tension, as though he weren't arguing with Meldh, but were arguing with himself. He kept talking, though, fumbling through in a rush. "And we might not even need to do that! The Advancement Agency has made amazing strides in only a few years. With reconfiguring parts alone, they'll raise life expectancy. The prostate, the heart, the optic nerve, the retina, the spine, the knees, the teeth, the heart… there are all sorts of design fixes that will reduce the chances of morbidity. Making them a part of the standard rejuvenation and putting in greater security - even perhaps with the aid of the Touch, sir - will put us well ahead of the curve on a new Moore's Law of lifespan."

"No," said Meldh, flatly... that short and curt blade of a word. "We will not wait, not when the new ritual will be so simple to devise - with some little study of your Muggle knowledge about the stars. Not one more minute, as the saying goes."

Harry choked a little in his throat, then hung his head, and made no reply. He stared at the floor.

"To think I feared to come here, considering it an unwarranted risk," marveled Meldh, shaking his head and gesturing down the corridor. "Come. We must arrange for the death of the fallen bishop, Bellatrix Black, and take what actions are necessary to suborn the absentee goblins, and set them, too, on the correct path." He smiled at the thought. "Then I have some preparations to make before I step outside of this Tower to consult with my allies."

Harry began moving obediently, and they began walking back to the meeting room. Meldh glanced at him, and spoke, his voice kind. "The new immortals of the world, the ones that we choose to aid us in our cause, will have cause to praise my risk and your losses, Mr. Potter. There are endless stars in the sky… more than enough for every witch and wizard we might select."

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_On the shores of the lake of teeth, where the black hills end, Tír inna n-Óc_

_May 19th, 1999_

_Later that day_

Whispering teeth.

Fractal shadows.

Desolation.

"You have succeeded… well done," said the third figure - Nell. Her congratulations were light and pleasant, but none the more convincing for that.

"Thank you," said the first figure - Meldh. "We have swept the board."

The second figure said nothing, only watching them both.

"You have Touched the boy-king… will you leave him in charge?" asked Nell.

"No," said Meldh. "I will take his shape and his identity. He has built a formidable apparatus, and I think that few threats now exist that could stand against it."

"You do not think that you might be, perhaps overconfident? Is your control already so sure?" asked Nell.

Meldh paused and did not reply for a time. The second figure, silent still, turned a face of slithering shadow to regard him, watching intently.

"My pride prompts me to deny you, but _mirgo que n'a qu'un trpu est bientôt prise_… yes, perhaps you are correct," said Meldh, finally. "Mr. Potter himself said as much to me, not an hour ago. I had thought to use the goblins as an excuse to change policy, but even a goblin army may not be sufficient to rouse enough alarm and stem the suspicion of his allies."

"If you require further assistance, then you shall have it," said the second figure.

"We are gambling a great deal," agreed Nell. "You shall have every support we can offer."

"Then so be it," said Meldh. "I will not turn away one ounce of assistance. And for my part, I find that I will not have need of the Stone of the Long Song, so long as you would still be willing to lend its power on occasion, Madame."

"Of course," said Nell, and the shadows writhed in some distant imitation of a smile.

"No," said the second figure. "That shall not be sufficient. Now is not the time for conservative policies. We must take this opportunity to act. Our hand is in play - we will make it a fist. Now is the time to act. We will do as we have not done in many years. Sontag once thrived and threatened, rich on the concentrated lore of the Peverells, and made a perfect plum to be plucked. You fear preparations against you? Let us swamp them in violence."

"Is that not hasty?" asked Meldh.

Even Nell seemed startled by the proposition. "I will commit all to the enterprise, if necessary, but I think -"

"We will raise mighty forces. Armies. I will act with all puissance at my command," said the second figure, as though the others had not spoken. "Not only the goblins, strong with the restored knowledge of their ancient will-work. Also the visc and lejis of this place will take breath again, driven by the gaunt-horrors. I will break the cycle of the unsleeping, and bring forth your long-vanished terrasque and basilisks. Muggles in their hordes will take the eaters on themselves. They will march, we will sacrifice many… and take the opportunity to wipe away the magics of London, Boston, and Hangzhou."

"I am not sure that…" said Nell, hesitantly. "We have not acted on such a scale since…" She shook her head, darkness swirling. "Never. This is audacity truly worthy of Merlin. And unspeakably risky."

"Thus shall it be, Perenelle du Marais," said the second figure. He did not wait for a reply, but turned to Meldh, and stated, "Thus shall it be, Heraclius Hero. We will sweep the world with discord and blood, crush a thousand artifacts and burn a thousand scrolls, and raise such fear as has never been seen."

There was a desperately long pause, when none of them moved. They were not as such to act in haste, despite the brutal decisiveness they could bring to such conversations. All Three waited, patiently, for the others to come to terms with the new shape of the world to come.

Tentatively, Nell said, "In the face of such a threat, those remaining wizards will unite behind the Tower. Behind you." She looked back at Meldh.

"Behind _us_," corrected Meldh, mildly. "And I think we will have no resistance, then, in a push to redouble the Statute of Secrecy's strictures and limit the scope and growth of magic. The plan will need further thought to arrange all of the pieces, but there will be resources to spare, now that I have mastered the Tower."

"You disposed of Bellatrix Black and Voldemort," said the second figure - a question that was not really a question.

"I have made arrangements for the death of the Black woman, but there are... complications with Voldemort. I actually have much to say to you about Horcruxes at another time. I have sealed Voldemort away, however, and erased all memory of his hiding place. It will suffice, I think," said Meldh.

"Kill Potter, as well," said the second figure. "Whatever his lore, the risk is too great. And we need no more _complications._"

"As you wish, although the odd patterns of his brain have been fruitful," said Meldh, untroubled. "I will strip his mind of what else might be gleaned, and then end him." He inclined his head, gently. "I will send signal for our next meeting presently, after concluding such matters. We will plan for our war and arrange our pieces."

"Yes," said the second figure. "Consider, each of you, the utmost of your might. We will spare no energy or lore in the conflict to come. Victory must be certain for us to take such a risk."

All three departed, each their separate ways.

Whispering teeth.

Fractal shadows.

Desolation.

Tír inna n-Óc endured.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_John Snow Center for Medicine and Tower School of Doubt (The Tower)_

_May 19th, 1999_

_The afternoon of the same day_

Upon his return to the Tower, Meldh appeared tired. He walked with heavy feet out of the annex next to the Receiving Room, where he'd performed the ritual. His fingers were still bloody, wet with the necessary components of a trip to the land of the Unseelie.

For a moment, the assured and calm wizard was gone. He looked the same… dusky skin, dark eyes, broad lips. But he looked weary and battered, and it was enough to bring a worried Moody to his side with gruff but concerned questions. Meldh waved away the Tower's spymaster, and stepped through the golden oval of the Tower entrance. Harry waited just inside, frowning and unhappy, accompanied by Diggory. Both young men looked immensely relieved to see their master alive, though their worried glances at each other showed their distress at his state.

"Sir, we're holding some people in Material Methods," said Diggory, speaking first. He and Harry walked along with Meldh down the corridor, slowly, towards the clinic. "Madame Bones, Percy Weasley, Councilor Reg Hig, and seven aurors reporting for their normal shifts. All stunned and waiting for you. And there is regular Tower business… people to heal."

"Good, good," said Meldh, slowly. "Harry must go and attend to matters. But I must rest. Keep the prisoners stunned and secured for now. Anything else?"

"Ackle and Curd have both sent away emissaries from Minister N'goma," said Harry, studying Meldh closely. "And Hermione Granger sent a message to let me know she'd be here this evening. All is well with your allies?"

"Fine," said Meldh. He sighed, heavily. "Ah, but… forgive my weariness, but there is such _violence_ in the offing, Mr. Potter. I confess that I did not anticipate it, and the very thought makes me ache for my garden and my home and my temple. I fear I will not see them for a great while, and that is not a discomfort I have needed to endure for many years." He shook his head. Harry touched him on the arm, reassuringly, and the older wizard glanced down at the hand and smiled a small smile.

"Sir, I'm sorry, but we should prepare for Granger," said Diggory, breaking in on the moment. "She is resourceful and her Returned are insane."

"I am too tired, young man," said Meldh. "Mr. Potter, make plans accordingly." He sighed again. "I must rest. There will be war soon, and the world will shake because of it. A great and fearsome god calls for blood. That is not something I have seen for centuries. I must rest and think."

Harry took hold of Diggory's arm, restraining him, and they stopped in their tracks. Meldh continued on, moving slowly. He vanished from sight into the clinic.

"This is for the best, Cedric," said Harry. "I'm not sure that he would be able to appreciate the threat that Hermione could present, but we do. Let's make a plan."


	50. Melpomene

_The Urgod Ur, Ackle_

_May 19th, 1999_

_The same day_

"I have no powers plenipotentiary," said Nagrod, nodding gravely at the assembled Urgod Ur. "I'm a messenger, and cannot come to any accord."

"But you bring word from Curd," said Sub Gol, folding his arms over his stomach, squinting down from his high seat.

"Excellent," said the Jurg, nearby, smiling eagerly down at Nagrod. "We'd be glad of our cousins' counsel."

Nagrod glanced around the Urgod Ur. It was a small room, and it smelled of sweat and unwashed flesh. All of the goblins within were respected and clever - the pillars of Acklish society, guiding their people for generations - but they had been cloistered in rooms like these for more than three weeks. No one was permitted to enter or leave, except by under the strictest security (a collar of consumption was locked around Nagrod's neck even now, despite his own high status). These were the inevitable requirements for independence in a hostile world run by vicious and subtle wizards.

"What word, then?" asked Bilgurd the Marrowed, his lips tight and his face skeptical. "What is Curd's decision?"

_Weak-kneed and short-eared, this lot,_ thought Nagrod, studying Bilgurd for a moment. _But we'd best be united._

"Curd will accept the Archon's offer," said Nagrod, flatly. "Our heritage is worth any war. We hope that Ackle will join us in this."

"Curd is bold," said Bilgurd, as his compatriots murmured to each other and exchanged significant glances.

Several goblins looked particularly at the Jurg, who had fixed an expression of solemn approval on his face. _He must have hoped to take the lead_, thought Nagrod. _His forge has hummed this past month, if the news is correct. Yet if that Hod is in favor of the deal, then where can opposition lie? Someone must have stood in the way of consensus._

"I believe this speaks with leather lungs," said Sub Gol, nodding. "We have gone back and forth a hundred times and more. 'They have given us wands, 'they have given us power,' 'they will give us youth'... But Curd has it right! Our cousins have seen through to the truth of it: that this is a chance we may never get again - a chance to take back our birthright of true will-work. Ackle can soar again in gold and diamond, as it was before the Edict of Hortensius."

"It would be a mistake," said Bilgurd. He was looking at Nagrod when he said it, and Nagrod met Bilgurd's eyes with firmness. _Ah, here we are. You're the one._

"In only a few years, that same Edict has been repealed," said Bilgurd, "or its modern equivalent, anyway. And wands are nothing to mock." He reached into a shiny leather dueling holster at his waist and withdrew one, holding it up. Like most goblin wands - with a few notable exceptions - it had seen little use. They all had them, anyway. "Generations of goblins fought and died to regain these sticks. Caislean-i-Cahaenn rose under Crad the Callow for them. And now you and others would agree to attack the very Tower that gave them to us?"

"Are we Beasts, then, truly?" asked Sub Gol, his voice ridged with scorn. "Like a whipped dog, returning to the hand that held the lash because it has thrown us an old crust? There is no doubt about this 'Archon' and his power, or the power of his allies. That was shown us in spectacular fashion. And he offers us something we might never regain, otherwise - things not in the gift of the Tower. We cannot know in what shape the Archon will take control of things, but surely it will be in the same subtle fashion as the Tower… and thus we will have all the Tower gave us, plus all the Archon promises, and a powerful new friend- who owes us greatly, to boot! If we are to be the catspaw of a Dark Lord, let it be the one with the greater pay. Should we make a terrible new enemy rather than a terrible new ally?"

"Why do we quarrel so? The debate was split and sundered, but now Curd has come down with us," pointed out the Jurg.

Nagrod nodded, putting an expression of gratitude on his face. _And yet this still might turn either way. And should they decide wrongly, what will stop Curd from reconsidering?_ The Archon's messages echoed strangely in Nagrod's mind, and it was intolerable that this discussion might turn out poorly.

"Ackle must make up its own mind," he said, "and not let our decision overly influence your own. But I should say that we heard much the same arguments along much the same lines… as though we should be grateful to the Tower, as though we owe it - _him_ \- anything. And for myself, I do not count it a favor when my neighbor ceases to beat me, and I do not reckon any debt might spring from the mere cessation of injustice."

"The Tower is a wizard," retorted Bilgurd, "not _every_ wizard. You propose to betray him and those who have worked to right the wrongs of the past. We would show no honour, and no gratitude, and no _fealty to contract_." His voice was heated. "We must not be cowards and hide our specific treachery under a general cloak. Let us at least admit what we do, if we do it… we would abandon our honour, as we knife the wizard who has helped us more than any other in generations."

There was a moment of quiet at this comment, as all took a moment to reflect. Then Sub Gol shrugged, leaning forward in his stone seat. "Very well, so be it. Our children will thank us, and our children's children, and ask only why we endured servitude for so long before taking action once more, as our forebears once did. I do not think we should pass up the opportunity to ally ourselves with this Archon - this new Dark Lord. He is mighty. Nor can we in good conscience turn away from our ancient birthright… the techniques of will-work that we thought long lost."

"And while it is true the Tower does not represent all wizardkind, that is rather the point," agreed Nagrod, eyeing Bilgurd closely. "Would you wager everything on honour?"

Bilgurd replied with hot words, and now the Jurg and others joined him, worried about flimsy ideas and trivialities. Nagrod responded with persuasion and pressure, and many others echoed him.

But truly, everything had been said at that moment, and it was on these arguments that the decision of Ackle would be made. As so often, the further hours of argument would come to nothing - there was no real exchange of ideas or harrowing of their merits, but only a war of mental attrition and emotional manipulation. Within one day more, the Acklish had made their choice.

Who would ever wager everything on honour, after all?

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_John Snow Center for Medicine and Tower School of Doubt (The Tower)_

_May 19th, 1999_

_The same day_

Like almost everyone, the simplest way for Hermione, Esther, and Charlevoix to travel to the Tower was with a Safety Stick. They used one: Esther and Charlevoix held on to one end, and Hermione took the other. She bent it sharply, and it broke. The three of them whirled away with a wrench, sideways to reality and away.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_The Matchless Vault of the Unsleeping, Seogwipo, Jeju, South Korea_

_May 19th, 1999_

_The same day_

In 1976, a team of treasure-hunters from Hangzhou discovered the entrance to the Matchless Vault of the Unsleeping, seeking it out from scraps of rumor and cryptic maps. Their search had taken long years, but the rewards would be worth it. The Matchless Vault of the Unsleeping was said to hold an ancient hoard of enchanted silver - a vast wealth from the time of the Tamna.

There were layers of traps and seals. A front gate, guarded by faceless inferi. A twisting passage, deadly at every step. A sealed inner gate, locked behind a puzzle-door of bismuth bronze. An antechamber thick with poisonous fumes.

"When we discovered the true location of this deathtrap, buried at the base of Mount Halla, we were a party of twelve," wrote Guang Mu in _An Exploration Ten Fathoms Deep_. "By the time we had pierced through to the inner chambers, we'd lost half our number."

Once inside, though, the six remaining treasure-hunters were gratified to see gleaming silver, piled in heaps of coins and stacked in ingots as large as a wizard's head. But in their haste to take hold of their prize, they forget their caution.

"Chi Guo rushed forward and plunged his arms up to the elbows into a pile of coins that filled an iron coffer, scooping them out in great handfuls," wrote Guang Mu. "He had poured them from his palms back into the chest, causing a deal of noise. When he turned to me with an expression of great delight, though, we became aware of another sound. It was a quiet rasping from many sources: scale on stone and horn on metal. We had awoken the final guardians.

"The basilisk struck from another chamber like an arrow, flying through the air the length of its body. We retreated, covering our eyes lest the beast turn its gaze on us, but it was preoccupied with poor Chi Guo. I had only an instant's impression of his body, stiffening and turning grey even as the great serpent entwined itself about him and began to pull him apart and reduce him to dust.

"We fled, but in our terror we neglected the door. This proved to be a fatal mistake for some, for it gave opening to a second monster: the deadly terrasque. It burst forth from a pile of silver, screeching with fearsome noise, and gave chase.

"Should you ever be so unfortunate as to encounter one of these fell beasts, you may know it by these signs: it stands twice the height of a wizard, and its body is composed of shiny red rock. It has six legs of crystal, a broad shell of rough stone, and a lion's head of obsidian and stinking saltpetre.

"Horrified, we attempted to block its path with web and ward, but it brushed aside our spells. In a trice, the terresque had seized Zeng Zhang in its mouth. He fought bravely to the last, but perished. He was soon followed by Duo We.

"I was forced to draw upon the Killing Curse, only to find to my dismay that it had no effect on the creature of rock. It was only by the quick reactions and clever thinking of my remaining allies that we rallied, depriving terresque of its footing with the Butterball Charm, and then sealing it away within the rock, fortifying this makeshift tomb with the stoutest barriers.

"Nothing further could be done about the basilisk or the Vault. We sealed the latter away and posted a guard, then went to seek aid. A plan was necessary for our return. And this time, we would be triumphant."

As told by Guang Mu, his group gathered reinforcements, including a noted hunter of dark wizards, and returned to work their vengeance. They were able to draw out and defeat the basilisk, defeating it with little loss of life. Its prized flesh and fangs were parceled out and added to the great wealth that the group took from the Matchless Vault of the Unsleeping.

The Vault has since become a place for historians and archaeologists to examine, searching for traces of the unknown witch or wizard who deposited their treasure in its coffers and tamed two of the most fearsome of known beasts to their service. There was little evidence to be found: a handful of unknown runes and a few tool marks on some of the ingots.

On this particular day, however, no one was present at the Vault when a cloaked figure arrived, borne on a chariot of fire. The visitor did not pause at the entrance, which was covered by a modern barrier of stone and steel; they said a soft word. Then they walked forward and the barrier swung open without complaint, despite its locks and seals.

The front gate was denuded of its undead guardians. The twisting passage was cleared of its clever traps. The puzzle-door on the inner gate stood open. The antechamber was fresh and pure. And the inner chambers were empty, ransacked of their silver and decorated only with a giant, yellow snake skull, locked within a display case.

But the visitor had no interest in any of these, walking with a brisk step through the gate, down the twisting passages, within the puzzle-door, and past the antechamber. They walked to one of the inner chambers, to the point where one wall met another. Their pace never slowed as they stepped sideways into an invisible seam, turning sharply to the side and up and beyond in some impossible fashion, entering a hidden passage that had been cleverly and maddeningly concealed in two dimensions.

The visitor met no apparent consequences for the loss of a dimension, though certainly common sense (and geometry) must imply that such a transition would be the immediate death of anyone foolish enough to attempt it. But in defiance of reason and Euclid and Edwin A. Abbot, the visitor simply moved down the corridor.

Shortly, the visitor reached the apparent end of the corridor, where ceiling and floor met a wall. But the visitor pushed forward through the wall, emerging with unhurried step in another place, far deeper within Mount Halla.

The air within this new chamber was stale and close, thick with the powdery dust of long ages and filled with the steady whisper of scale on stone and horn on metal. It was black night in the room, and the visitor summoned a light to hand with a thought.

The light illuminated a great and crowded room.

Basilisks hissed in their dozens, sleepily and irritably raising their heads as they awoke from long hibernation, and terresque shifted lethargically where they lay in their rocky sleepless mounds.

The visitor raised a hand in command, and began.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_John Snow Center for Medicine and Tower School of Doubt (The Tower)_

_May 19th, 1999_

_The same day_

"Wake up, Hermione," said Harry. She opened her eyes, smiling… although it was a bit odd that Harry was there. Usually they just unstunned her and the Returned in the Receiving Room, and she walked into the Tower under her own power. It was better for her image. Had Harry finally left the Tower, for the first time in years?

No, she was in the clinic. In one of the cubicles. Esther and Charlevoix weren't there.

She couldn't move. When she tried, she could feel cold metal on her arms and legs, with more restraints over her waist and chest.

_Oh God._

She heaved, but the metal didn't yield even slightly. Goblin silver?

Was this really the Tower? Was that really Harry?

How could she get free without killing him? She searched her mind, considering the spells she could cast without wand or significant gestures.

"It's all right," Harry said, reassuringly.

She was not reassured.

"Harry, what are you doing?" she asked. She kept her voice calm.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_Žižkovské divadlo Járy Cimrmana, Prague, Czech Republic_

_May 19th, 1999_

_The same day_

"Dobrý den!" called out a cheerful female voice. Jakub glanced to his left, across the street, where an attractive young woman was waving at him from a doorway - the entrance to a theatre. She was on the short side, with a generous chest and wide hips. She was wearing a strange sort of green dress, which was so long it touched the pavement underfoot and which came so high on the neck that it even included a little collar. It looked more like a costume than clothing, and Jakub wondered if she was promoting a play. He glanced at his wristwatch… he had a little time before he needed to get home. Curious, he paused and glanced both ways along the street, then crossed.

"Máte přání?" he asked, smiling, as he walked up to the actress. She smiled back at him. She had a very wide mouth and a little button nose, making her appear almost like a doll.

"Ahoj!" she replied, cheerfully. "Co děláš dnes večer?"

He was, in fact, busy that evening: Hana was expecting him. They were going to go dancing. But Jakub could still find out what was going on, here - what the promotion might be. Maybe Hana might like to skip the clubs tonight, and come see a play, instead. "Nevím," he said, smiling and shrugging (maybe even flirting a little, but he wasn't a monk, for God's sake). "Proč?"

The woman shrugged back at him, turning her head slightly and smiling coyly. She reached into a long pocket of her dress, making a show of it, and pulled out a stick. "Vynikající. Potřebujeme nějakou pomoc. _Confundo_."

Jakub felt a tingle run through him, as though he'd been plunged into warm water. It was odd, but somehow reassuring at the same time.

"Jdi dovnitř a čekat. Máme jít do války," the woman said, and Jakub found himself nodding and agreeing, since of course he had already intended to go inside and wait quietly for further instruction.

He pushed open the door to the theatre. The lobby was empty, but of course he was supposed to just walk right on past the ticket counter and on inside. That was just obvious to him.

Every seat was occupied already, he saw with some disappointment. Even most of the space in the aisles was already packed full of other people - random men and women of every shape and size and age. Jakub frowned, and pushed along the outer edge of the theatre, finding a corner that wasn't quite crammed full of some of these other patiently waiting people.

Once he'd found a space, he leaned against the wall and relaxed. He glanced at his wristwatch. Nothing to do tonight or ever, so he had plenty of time to wait until he was needed. It was clearly what he should be doing… just standing here and waiting until it was time to go and collect the weapons. Then they'd go off to war, of course. It was obvious enough.

Jakub closed his eyes and rested. Best to save his strength.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_John Snow Center for Medicine and Tower School of Doubt (The Tower)_

_May 19th, 1999_

_The same day_

She'd had only a few seconds to think before someone stepped into the cubicle, past Harry.

It was an older man with a pleasant smile. He glanced at Harry, but said nothing. He reached out to put his hand on Hermione's ankle.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_The murderfields, Tír inna n-Óc_

_May 19th, 1999_

_The same day_

The murderfields were still and icy, as they had been for years without end. None of the cold chopped flesh moved, and sweet chunks of pain lay scattered as the lord of the lunar caustic had left them.

The milk rains had left a white frost on everything.

"Kruwos," whispered a voice on the wind, reaching from a cautious distance, out beyond the fields' end. "Spondejo kruwos. Kruwos. Kruwos. Spondejo kruwos."

_Kruwos_, replied cold lips. _Kruwos._

A ragged hand slid gently from beneath a ragged thigh, slipping out of the ground and up into the air. Milkrime crackled as the hand moved and thrust its fingers into a crevice. It pulled with nightmare strength, joints popping all around like sloppy mouths, until an entire arm was revealed. Then it released its grip and delicately reached back to pluck away a pale, loose band of flesh, setting it aside with care upon a withered labia near at hand.

The gaunt's eyes were wide and staring, wet pools of black ichor in a taut white face. It smiled, and its teeth were madness.

The murderfields rustled and cracked. A leji-claw appeared, and then the long fingers of another gaunt.

The Unseelie rose again.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

Meldh released Hermione, and smiled amiably. "There. All better."

She looked back at him.

The world shuddered, as though in pain.


	51. Batter My Heart

_O royal Hera, of majestic mien, aerial-formed, divine, Zeus' blessed queen, throned in the bosom of cerulean air, the race of mortals is thy constant care. The cooling gales they power alone inspires, which nourish life, which every life desires. Mother of showers and winds, from thee alone, producing all things, mortal life is known: all natures share thy temperament divine, and universal sway alone is thine, with sounding blasts of wind, the swelling sea and rolling rivers roar when shook by thee. Come, blessed Goddess, famed almighty queen, with aspect kind, rejoicing and serene._

Orphic Hymn to Hera (trans. Thomas Taylor)

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_John Snow Center for Medicine and Tower School of Doubt (The Tower)_

_May 19th, 1999_

_The same day_

Hermione had only a few seconds to think before someone stepped into the cubicle, past Harry.

It was an older man with a pleasant smile. He glanced at Harry, but said nothing. He reached out to put his hand on Hermione's ankle.

"_Egeustimentis_."

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

Hermione existed as a fragment of consciousness, while a strange man walked through her mind.

"And you are Miss Granger," mused the man. He stroked the broad fur of one thought, as it wriggled down among its fellows. "Or shall I call you Hermione? Maybe when I know you better." The thought squirmed away from the man's touch.

"I am Meldh," said the man. "It has become necessary for you to be altered to a certain degree. All of your friends have been changed thus, including Harry Potter." He waded through the thoughts that seethed around him in their furry multitudes, plucking at them here and there. "Another Muggleborn… and so much like Mr. Potter, himself. He would be pleased to hear that, I think. There is no romance, there… more worship than anything else, as though you were a statue on a pedestal. But it would please him to hear it."

The mote that was Hermione observed this, distantly.

Meldh touched a tightly-spun wire of dense yellow fog, and it undulated at the contact. "So much that is interesting, here." He flickering his fingers over a series of fog wires, and seized one between two fingers to examine it. "You think a great deal of your 'Returned,' hmm? We will take them into our organization as well, then. Great events are in motion, Miss Granger. Entire armies are moving and preparing, getting ready to crash against each other like great waves. Nations will fall. Worlds will end. We will add your Returned to the ranks of the belligerents… take them off of the map, too."

The wizard smiled, amiably. "But first we must make some changes. One rather important change, laid down upon your brain." He picked at a wire, pulled it free, and moved it. "We begin, Hermione."

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

Meldh released Hermione, and smiled amiably. "There. All better."

She looked back at her master.

The world shuddered, as though in pain.

A ripple passed through the small white cubicle in the Tower clinic, through Hermione where she lay, bound, on the bed, and through Harry and Meldh. It was as though someone had taken hold of reality by the corners, like a bedsheet, and given it a firm snapping shake.

Meldh said nothing, but shot Harry a questioning look, his lips firm. He stripped back the sleeves of his robes with two rapid movements. His skin had begun emitting golden light, pleasant in color, but pricklish on the skin, and some manner of green-skinned creature, translucent and smelling of sulfur, had slithered out from beneath Meldh's clothing to wrap around his waist. The beast had innumerable jointless legs, like clawed tentacles, and the wide-nosed snout and beady eyes of a great lizard.

Harry looked around, bewildered, sweat on his brow. His hands were trembling.

"What -" began Hermione, her voice a croak.

"My God," interrupted Harry, whipping his head around at her. "You used it, didn't you, Hermione?" His voice was rising into an accusing, outraged shout. "I can't believe you would be so reckless! Don't you realize you've put us all in danger?! You've put the whole Tower - all of _England_ in danger! Are you insane?!"

"What is it, boy?" cut in Meldh, his voice an uncharacteristic snarl. His eyes were narrow and dark.

Harry stabbed an accusing finger at Hermione. "It's the ultimate power in the universe. And you have _used it_."

Meldh whirled to stare at Hermione, raising his hands in front of him. His palms seethed with black ichor, boiling forth as he glared threateningly. The wizard was all alive with anger, bright-edged and sharp, and it was as though he were a different person. "What have you done?!"

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_John Snow Center for Medicine and Tower School of Doubt (The Tower)_

_January 17th, 1996_

_Three years ago_

Harry set the leather satchel carefully on the table. "Here it is," he said. "Fred says that it was just where the centaurs said it would be."

"And we're sure," Hermione said, staring at the bag, "that it's not a fake, made into a trap that will turn us into frogs or something?"

"The Headmistress, Moody, Mafalda Hopkirk, and Edgar Erasmus have all independently verified it," said Harry. In answer to Hermione's raised eyebrow, he added, "...shortly before their memories were voluntarily wiped."

She pursed her lips, and leaned forward across the table, opening the satchel. She reached inside, and pulled out the Goblet of Fire, also known as the Cup of Dawn. It was a crude-looking thing with a thick rim and rough base. There was no fire or glow about it, and to all appearances was nothing more than a poorly-made wooden goblet.

"This is… underwhelming," Hermione said, frowning.

"That's the cup of a carpenter," Harry said, smiling.

"Is it really -" Hermione began, then frowned again. "Oh, shut up."

"I worked out the language for the contract," Harry said, pulling folded parchment out of his pocket. "They used to use this cup for sporting events and major contracts between magical races, so it's pretty well-understood. Hopkirk explained it to me. It can bind anyone to a contract if their names are placed in it. Only valid contracts - binding two or more people, clearly stated terms, only negative consequences, and so on. But it's famously impossible to evade the penalty clauses."

"It doesn't seem that useful to us, then," said Hermione, disappointed. "We don't need a contract to trust each other."

"The idea of 'negative consequences' is relative," Harry said. He shoved the parchment over to her. "We swear this, and then seal the memories of all of this away."

The proposed contract was lengthy.

_We, the oathbound, hereby make contract that at no point shall we be controlled, possessed, or otherwise ensorceled by the same individual, group of individuals, club, coterie, organization ... Should we fail to abide by this bargain, whether it be by fault of our own or the deeds of others … shall suffer the immediate and complete dismissal of all enchantments or alterations of mind present on our persons at that time, including but not limited to… as further specified in Appendix XIV … agreement to this contract shall constitute required loss of memory of all terms and conditions for the contract, as well as loss of memory of the contract itself, as well as the location and status of all agents or objects involved in maintenance of the contract, for the duration of the contract… _

It went on.

"You don't think this is paranoid?" she asked, studying the oath, looking for flaws or loopholes. "I mean, even beyond Alastor levels of paranoia. There are other ways to use this… there's an opportunity cost for setting this contingency up. If we hide this thing and erase it from our memories, then we can't use it for anything else. Why not use it to lock in support from signatories to the Treaty? Or even just use it to keep all our aurors loyal?" 

Harry picked up the Goblet of Fire, and studied it. "Magic is too big. It's too unpredictable. That's a good thing in a lot of ways, since it means we can't even begin to guess at the possible limits for humanity in a universe full of magic. Exploring and colonizing outside of our light cone, reversing entropy… we can't rule anything out. There are thousands of spells, and tens of thousands more that have been forgotten or mostly forgotten. There are too many possible unknowns. This might actually not even be paranoid enough… I tried to figure a way for this to work for us individually, but you can't contract with yourself." He put the Goblet back down. "Yes, we'd pay a price for doing this. But we have to defend against everything, even the impossible things we don't know about yet. Levels and levels."

Hermione regarded the Goblet of Fire, and nodded, slowly. "All right. Although honestly, I'm not sure why all of these sorts of things have such silly names."

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_John Snow Center for Medicine and Tower School of Doubt (The Tower)_

_May 19th, 1999_

_Now_

"She has used the Star of Death," said Harry to Meldh, his voice upset and his face sweaty. "And now we're all at risk. Our very existence in Time is at risk. Sir, we have to get you someplace safe!"

_The Goblet of Fire… our contract, _Hermione thought, blinking rapidly. The memory was there - the knowledge of the contract was present, as though it had always been lurking just out of her mind's eye. _We broke the contract, and it has imposed its penalty. The failsafe worked. We're free._ She glanced down at the bands of goblin silver across her legs, her waist, her chest, and each forearm, fixing her in place to a strip of silver on the underside of the cot. _Well, free in a manner of speaking._ _Are these restraints for unruly werewolves, or something created just for me?_

Meldh pivoted in place, holding one palm towards Hermione and swinging the other towards Harry. Ichor bubbled from between his fingers. Where it dripped on the floor, the surface vanished, leaving a series of divots and pocks in the stone. "The 'Star of Death?' There was no hint of such in either of your minds," declared Meldh, his voice taut with tension and anger.

_Smart man. When your captured enemy is making implausible claims about secret weapons, he's almost always lying. And even when he isn't, your enemy's demise will often be the best solution. Better for your health and your reputation to wipe them out immediately._

_He needs fear. _She glanced at the marks left by the black ichor. _Fear of obliteration. Fear of the unknown._

"It's coming," said Hermione. "And it's already altered our past - eating it up from the source. I think… I think it begins from the first moment of its own existence. Even our memories of it. Maybe it… I'm not sure. I only know that it won't stop until it has devoured our time. Yours, mine, and Harry's. We'll be gone." She breathed out, heavily, and closed her eyes. "I'm willing to pay that price."

"You defy the Lethe Touch," Meldh observed, coldly. "I mastered you and I changed you, yet now you are glad of my death." He paused. "There is something at work here that I do not understand."

Hermione opened her eyes again, and saw the Asiatic wizard staring at her with narrowed eyes. She remembered lunch with Reg Hig and Per Aavik-Söderlundh-Ellingsen, and the value of a strategic but subtle slip.

"It doesn't matter what you do," she replied, her own voice as firm as bedrock. "I will not stop the Star of Death." She raised her voice, pronouncing as clearly and coldly as a mountain stream, "Die. And be damned."

He turned to face her, fully. Just behind him, she saw Harry watching, carefully but silently. _Good. Don't oversell it. _The translucent green creature that clung to Meldh's waist hissed, quietly, and kept its attention on Harry.

Meldh said nothing, either. He only met her gaze with dark eyes. She felt a touch on her mind - the gentlest of probing contact with another's thoughts. Barely a whisper of Legilimency: a thin needle of attack so perfectly honed in its intrusive power that it seemed to have physical form.

Hermione didn't react. Her training had not overlooked the obvious. Her mind was a stone her mind was steel her mind was wax her mind was an ox her mind was a child her mind was herself.

And there was nothing for Meldh to find there but contempt. _Die, and be damned._

Meldh said nothing, but she felt the touch on her mind change. The whisper-sharp needle of Legilimency vanished and was replaced by something unfamiliar… a draining emptiness that settled down around her thoughts. It plucked at her from many directions at once, presenting a blankness into which her mind could pour. It was like the last moments of consciousness before sleep, where a thought could occur, linger on the edges of awareness, and then gently tumble away into the darkness.

But Hermione had an answer for that, too. She cast thoughts into that darkness, one after the other, flinging them out into the sucking unconsciousness that lay on her thoughts like a blanket. She hurled memories like weapons, a bulwark of recall that could be offered without loss: the feeling of sunshine on her shoulders as she sat in a field at Powis; the rich ribbons of smell that filled the house when Gran made venison pies; the joyful screams of Granville that shattered the grimness of Azkaban; the click of one chess-piece against another as her father taught her how to castle.

The draining emptiness vanished with that last thought, and she saw a flicker of reaction on Meldh's face. Surprise and suspicion.

Hermione never moved her eyes from his.

"Kурва," Meldh spat at her, his face reddening. "Very well. Another Touch. And I will tear your mind to _shreds _this time."

_You have to get near me to do that, little man,_ thought Hermione.

He took a step towards her, reaching out for Hermione's restrained arm. The golden light that had been gently emanating from him faded, and the ichor vanished from his palms.

Behind Meldh, Harry drew his wand.

She bucked in place, kicking both legs as hard as she can, straining her stomach, wrenching her arms in place. The goblin silver didn't yield even a little. But she remembered fighting Tineagar in a Tidewater basement - remembered the value of sacrifice. _Pain is nothing. Save one life._

Her right arm braced against the restraint, and she twisted it to the side. It broke with the sharp sound of fracturing bone. Pain roared like a lion, savaging her.

Meldh, reaching out for her, lurched backwards in surprise.

Harry raised his wand to point at Meldh. Almost immediately, the green creature wrapped around Meldh's waist hissed loudly, and lunged at Harry. He backpedaled, swatting at the creature as it landed on his chest, shrilly hissing and baring its smoking fangs. Meldh jerked around in shock.

Hermione jerked her arm free, torn hand and forearm still locked in place on the bed, blood pouring out of her like a bolt of crimson fabric. A scream burst from her.

But the end of her backup wand, the Ultimate Ulna, was exposed amid the splintered ends of her bones. 

"_Lagann. Stuporfy."_

The Breaking Drill Hex cleared the way, and the Swerving Stunner didn't even need to swerve: it hit Meldh full in the chest.

The member of the Three didn't fall. He staggered, red flickering energy jolting through him. The green creature on Harry's chest - _connected somehow? a sort of magical circuit-breaker?_ \- whipped its head back and exploded in a shower of phosphorescent green sparks torn through with flickering red. In the same moment, the Ultimate Ulna also flared green and red, and burnt itself into ashes. She could smell her own flesh as it burnt.

_I'm unarmed_, she thought crazily.

Meldh lurched forward towards Hermione, grunting something unintelligible, his face a grimace of rage. He reached for her.

Desperate, she lashed out with her broken arm. The splintered bones lashed Meldh across the face, leaving deep scratches along his cheek. The pain was Fiendfyre on her nerves.

"Hermione!" called Harry, reaching for his dropped wand, eyes wide.

"Hermione," snarled Meldh, arm outstretched, swaying in place.

"Hermione," agreed Hermione, and struck once more with her broken arm, and her splintered bones tore like talons through Meldh's throat. Blood geysered across her chest and face.

The dying man's hand came down on her shoulder, his dark eyes bright with anger. Blood poured onto her from the lacerated meat of Meldh's throat. He tried to speak, to cast a spell, but could produce nothing more than a bubbling gurgle and a mouthful of blood. Meldh grimaced, and his teeth were red. 

"_Stupefy. Stupefy. Stupefy!_" cast Harry from behind him. And this time, mortally injured and bereft of his defences, the spells took Meldh. The member of the Three shivered through with red energy, his muscles locking, and toppled to the ground like a fallen tree.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_Oh, All-Nature, Queen, Mother of all things, untiring Mother, exalted, creating, She who tames all, Unmentionable, shining, the Firstborn who quenches everything, who brings the Light! Born of yourself, present everywhere and all-knowing You Blessed One, who makes things grow and rot, Father and Mother of all things, Universal Worker, you who walk forth in an endless maelstrom, conserving, you who uphold yourself through repeated metamorphosis: I pray to you, give me peace!_

Orphic Hymn to Demeter (trans. Thomas Taylor)

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

Hermione, shaking, clutched at her injured arm with the other. It had stopped bleeding already, which was a relief. She'd been worried that her innate healing ability had been "dismissed" by the Goblet of Fire.

Across the cubicle, Harry was leaning on a chair, wand in hand. He was shaking, and there was a scorch mark on his cheek. Hermione supposed that had happened when that green creature had exploded - taking her wand with it.

She found her voice, finally, glancing from Harry to the frozen Meldh, and then back again. "The Death Star?"

Harry shrugged, but couldn't stop a smile from spreading on his face. It was an odd contrast with his trembling hands and the sweat plastering his hair to his forehead. "I couldn't… I couldn't think of anything else that sounded plausible and scary enough." He shook his head. "I don't know how we…"

His voice trailed off, and he paled. "Oh, God… everyone else. The Tower, the _entire Tower_, is magically bound to serve Meldh. He got almost everyone, Hermione. Draco, Moody, Cedric, the aurors, the healers… dozens and dozens of people are still under the effects of that... that… that _spell_."

"Get me out of this, first," Hermione said, slumping back against the bed. The pain in her arm was fading, finally.

"Buttons thirteen Sangomas," Harry said, and the restraints opened with a gentle click. "I'm so sorry about that, I didn't -"

"No time," interrupted Hermione, "and anyway, don't be stupid. How do we free everyone?"

Harry rubbed his temples, gritting his teeth. "I don't _know_. There's a counter-spell, but I stopped him from telling me about it. For _exactly this reason_, as a matter of fact. You cast the spell - which is _Egeustimentis _\- and then you say something else. But I don't know what."

Hermione knelt down next to Meldh, and clamped a hand over his neck. "Get out your medical kit. Maybe we can wake him up and get the spell out of him, somehow."

Harry knelt beside her, opening his mokeskin pouch. "Medical kit," he told it. He opened the small white case as soon as it leapt to hand, taking out Haverford's Marvelous Coagulant and some bandages. "It's been weeks, and I only just found out yesterday that we had finally managed to safely get some things out of Bellatrix Black. You think we can crack _this_ guy in the next few minutes, before someone checks on us? Without him playing puppeteer again?"

"Point taken," Hermione allowed. "But I don't even have a wand, much less my other stuff, so I don't know what we're going to do, otherwise. Can you manage to stun everyone here by yourself? Have you been secretly practicing duelling with Cedric or something?" she asked. She lifted her hand from the injured wizard's throat.

Harry didn't answer, just rolled his eyes as he squeezed orange gel onto Meldh's neck. The blood pouring out of the wizard's ragged throat began to slow, and soon stopped. "Your usual wand is in the meeting room, with the rest of your things. But I have a back-up wand for you. It's actually here in the clinic. I wanted to keep it especially safe, sealed off even from the rest of the Tower in case of trouble." He held out his wand to her. "Take mine for the moment."

Hermione took it from him with her uninjured arm. The wound on the other had closed, but she thought it would be ten or twenty minutes before the arm was usable again. She examined the raw-looking pink skin of the stump, which throbbed with pain in time to her heartbeat. She made a face.

"For now, I'll transfigure Meldh," Harry said. "We can't kill him, since we really might need him to release everyone. Let me have that back for a moment." She handed him back the wand, reluctant despite the obvious necessity. Harry was not a duelist.

He took the wand and held the tip against the chest of the villain's stiff body. Meldh began to shrink and warp in color and shape. Harry glanced over at her. "He was really Herpo the Foul, you know. Inventor of the Horcrux spell."

Hermione nodded, thoughtfully. "That makes sense." She stood up and went to the curtained entrance to their little white cubicle. "That spell… it was enslavement. How long were you like that? How long has he been here?"

"A couple of days," Harry said, quietly. His voice was very small. "It hurt. It was like being at war with myself. Everything in me pushed as hard as it could, but it was like part of my mind had forgotten itself. Couldn't help itself. And it was the most powerful part." He stopped speaking for a moment, staring down at the diminishing Meldh with distant, unseeing eyes. "I worry a lot about addiction. I think that this was what addiction would feel like." Meldh was gone. In his place was a small white rock.

"Then you'll have put at least some plans in place in case something like this happened," said Hermione, firmly. _Stay with me, Harry. _"How long do we have before someone comes to ch-"

Cedric Diggory pulled back the curtain to the cubicle, flanked by a pair of aurors. He looked startled, opening his mouth to say something. The aurors behind him were quicker on the uptake, and their wands were already drawn. They raised them.

_Harry still has his wand. I've got nothing - less than nothing, only one arm. Need to close the distance._

"Είναι ο ίδιος!" called out Hermione, firmly, walking towards them with a bold and unafraid step. Her Greek was abysmal, a basic vocabulary put together in haste before the raid on the Cappadocian fortress of Göreme, but that wasn't important. _They have one overriding priority, the same one that was given me: protect and obey Meldh. That's an advantage for me. And they might be the slower for their internal conflict._

They were too well-trained and experienced, however, for any of that to slow them more than a moment. She was still out of reach when they recovered from their surprise, deciding that the better part of service was to incapacitate first and ask questions later. Good for them, that was the right decision. _Even if it's massively inconvenient at the moment. _The faces of the aurors hardened, and she saw their arms tense again. Cedric's eyes widened in alarm, and he snatched for his own wand.

Hermione thrust out her mind with the smell of blue November and the smell of burning leaves, and threw herself forward in an inhumanly powerful tumble. Her ward of prisms burst into existence, unfolding themselves with a crackle of crystal into a solid wall across the front of the cubicle.

They didn't fall for the gambit. The auror to Cedric's left fired Bertram's Bolts high and low, while the other tracked her with his wand, casting the Stunning Hex at her moving form. As Hermione tumbled forward, she heard the prism-barrier shatter and evaporate, and felt the numbing sting of a near miss.

"_Stupefy! Stupefy! Expelliarmus!" _she heard Harry cast, just before her tumble rolled her into the trio of aurors. She smashed into and through Cedric's legs with her back, carrying them out from under him. He fell on top of her, thrashing at her as he struggled to bring his wand to bear on her.

One of the aurors gestured a Roger's Shield into being in front of himself, almost effortlessly catching Harry's attacks with the multicolored circle. The other had his wand pointed at her, his mouth open to curse her. Cedric was in the way, but that didn't matter if he was just going to stun her, anyway. The auror was just too far to reach, and she didn't have any weapons. Could she grapple with Cedric and get his wand?

_Oh. Cedric._

She seized one of Cedric's legs with her good arm. She had a moment to see him staring at her, horror on his face. Then she heaved on the leg, hauling it as hard as she could upwards and away from her. She couldn't actually lift him off the ground that way - his leg would have come off if she tried, she thought - but he swung along the floor like an enormous club, smashing into the threatening auror's legs. The two wizards fell into a tangle of injured limbs.

The other auror turned his attentions to her, but it was too late. She was on her feet like lightning, and dropped him with a light backhand across the side of his skull. He collapsed, unconscious.

Harry darted forward and stunned the other two. They froze into immobility, still folded around each other and struggling. He threw her the wand, and she snatched it out of the air with her good hand.

"Last cubicle on the end," he said. "Password is 'splendour fifty Buick.' "

Hermione nodded. "Make sure none of these three are too badly hurt."

"Go," Harry said, already reaching for the medical kit.

She leapt over the auror she'd knocked out, into the main corridor of the clinic. The long row of white cubicles confronted her, screened off with sheets. She sprinted the length of the corridor in the blink of an eye, arriving at the other end of the general ward at the same moment as a running auror appeared at the door - Hedley Kwannon. Kwannon's wand was already drawn, Hermione saw.

"_Stupefy!"_ cast Kwannon and Hermione at the same time. As she cast, Hermione lunged to the side into one of the cubicles, clawing out with her mind to raise another wall of prismatic crystal. For her part, Kwannon was unbelievably fast, raising a wall of Azarian Fire _and _the red mist of Bartolomeo's Reckoning almost at the same time, and _still _able to bring her wand back to Pflug position. The auror's wards absorbed Hermione's curse, and Kwannon was ready to cast three Bertram's Bolts, each a foot apart from the next. Hermione felt them sizzle past her, the dull yellow hexes missing her only by the grace of her speed and luck.

Hermione sprang to her feet as Kwannon charged through the door. Immediately, Kwannon raised more Azarian Fire, and it was again a cover for an attack. But this time she attacked Hermione's footing. _"Orbis." _Hermione felt the stone underfoot soften, sloughing away from under her shoes. _She's better at chaining and a better shot than me; if I lose my mobility, I'm done, _Hermione thought.

For her part, Hermione responded the way Alastor had always taught her: once you know your advantages, press them relentlessly. She sacrificed position and used the stone for her own purposes, charming it into a swirling wall of rock between the two of them. Then she sprang forward, driving her toes hard into the softening floor.

From the other side of the wall, Hermione heard Kwannon chant the first few syllables of the runes of balance: a delaying action. Unfortunately for Kwannon, Hermione simply had no time for more of this.

She threw herself shoulder-first into the stone at full speed, and it yielded before her. She burst through, into a startled Kwannon - still tracing orange symbols in the air - and stunned the auror with a crackling red curse.

Panting, Hermione turned to the cubicle on the end. "Splendour fifty Buick," she said, holding her shoulder.

The plain stone of the wall shifted in one spot, slightly and silently.

Hermione stepped over to the stone that moved, and gently pushed it to one side. It swiveled open on an invisible hinge, exposing a small ledge within the wall.

Resting on the ledge was a wand of elder wood. She recognized it. It had once belonged to Albus Dumbledore, before it passed to Lord Voldemort. He in turn passed it to Harry Potter, who became - as she understood it - the rightful owner, by dint of conquest.

_Until he was defeated by Bellatrix Black_, she realized. _Right before I put my fist through her._

Hermione Granger picked up her wand.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_O Powerful Nike, by men desir'd, with adverse breasts to dreadful fury fir'd,_

_Thee I invoke, whose might alone can quell contending rage, and molestation fell:_

_'Tis thine in battle to confer the crown, the victor's prize, the mark of sweet renown;_

_For thou rul'st all things, Nike divine! And glorious strife, and joyful shouts are thine._

_Come, mighty Goddess, and thy suppliant bless, with sparkling eye, elated with success; _

_May deeds illustrious thy protection claim, and find, led on by thee immortal Fame._

Orphic Hymn to Nike (trans. Thomas Taylor)


	52. Homophone

Hermione hefted the Elder Wand. It was long for a wand, and oddly-shaped - it even looked like there were carvings on the surface, faint knobbly engravings. She'd only seen it a few times before, for Dumbledore had seldom used it in the presence of students, but its distinctive appearance made it easy to recognize.

As she held it between her fingers, she slowly became aware that a new voice had joined a hymn within her - a hymn that had been there for a long time, but which she'd never noticed. It was a hymn to glory and war, and it sang within her as deeply and innately as her own heartbeat.

_What do you do? What are capable of? How can you help me? _ she asked it, speaking to that bone-deep hymn. There was no response, and no indication of the wand's power or nature. She knew that Harry had stopped using it long ago, when he'd begun sacrificing parts of his magic - over and over, year after year - to revive some of the dead. Once he'd committed to that, focusing all of his efforts on organizing, planning, leading… well, he was never going to be a wizard of immense arcane power, and that made carrying the Elder Wand around with him a liability, rather than an advantage.

"_It's too dangerous for me to carry around, putting at risk, when we barely understand it," _he'd said._ "We don't even know what it would mean to be 'defeated' and lose the Wand to a new master. If I lose a game to someone, or get charmed by someone, or even just get killed by an attacker, I don't want them able to just reach down and pick up an ancient device of this sort of power. It makes all of your spells more powerful, but who knows what else it could do in the hands of the wrong person? None of our research could find out its hidden properties, but if it's anything like the True Cloak of Invisibility, there's another hidden level."_

Well, it didn't matter right now, anyway. Whatever the hidden power that might exist here, at the moment Hermione just appreciated the boost to her magical power. The entire Tower was set against them, magically compelled to do their best to rescue Meldh. There were no more contingencies, no more plans. It was possible there was yet another plan, another level, hidden from her own memories the same way the Goblet had been… but she doubted it. No, it was just her and Harry against the world, it seemed.

She flicked the wand between her fingers, and it trailed silver sparks. The work of the legendary Peverells, another of the Hallows. The thought put her back in mind of their situation. _We need to get to the meeting room, to get my things. The Cloak will get us out of here - and help us rescue Esther and Hyori, if they haven't already been dominated. Then we can work on a plan to free everyone else._

Hermione lowered the wand, and took a look at her injured arm. It was healing, pink flesh pushing new, raw skin out from the swirl-seamed stump. She'd be able to use it in a few more minutes.

Firming her resolve, she stepped out of the cubicle, to head back to Harry near the other end of the clinic's general ward. She saw that he'd rolled the goblin-silver shield in place to block off the other entry, and was heading towards her with quick steps. Harry looked disheveled - a skinny young man in simple robes, soiled with streaks of blood, his hair coming loose from its ponytail. These days, the scar on his forehead was usually faded, but he was flushed and a pale lightning bolt was visible on his brow. He had dark circles under his eyes.

They met halfway down the hall. She turned, and they walked together, moving briskly.

"Meeting room," she said. "Not too far. Just through the discharge ward, around the corner, and down the hall. We can do it."

"When they come, just try to get through. You stand a better chance of making it, and then you can rescue everyone," Harry replied, holding his wand in tense fingers. He offered her the white rock that had been Meldh, and she tapped her wand to it and spent a half-second of her will Transfiguring it into its present shape, taking control of the spell with her own magic.

She didn't bother to respond to his words, and he didn't push it. They'd long-since dropped pretenses between them, and didn't play to roles. She didn't tell him that she wasn't about to leave him, and that he stood the best chance of figuring out a plan to reverse all this - to free the Tower. He didn't reply that it was more important that someone got out, and that too much depended on someone staying free. No roles. No wasted words. Just Harry and Hermione.

A stranger appeared at the end of the ward, racing through at a sprint. On seeing them, he skidded to a halt. Almost certainly an auror, Hermione thought. Average height, average weight, but no one she'd ever seen before. Wand in hand.

Then the auror grinned wolfishly, and she knew.

Alastor.

He wasn't even trying to disguise his body language, with his shoulders rounded and his feet already in correct position for Mezzo Passo. He was using his primary wand. He looked as he'd looked in a dozen bodies on hundreds of different mornings, putting her through her paces along with four other students. He looked prepared.

"Hermione. Harry. You're free," he said. An unknown voice, but familiar cadence and gruffness. "Well done."

"Alastor," she said, calmly. "Meldh is dead."

"We must serve his interests, and find a way to bring him back," Harry said, standing at her side.

Alastor shook his head, still grinning, and tapped one side of his head with his free hand, chidingly. The Eye of Vance, embedded in his head like a real eye. He could see that there was no Meldh in the room, and see the white stone she'd dropped into the pocket of her robes. He knew.

_Which means_, Hermione realized in a flash so quick that it could barely be called a thought, _that we'll be swamped with aurors in a moment, and he's delaying me and hoping for some banter, and he can see through all the cubicles and barriers so he has a tactical advantage, and he knows I know this but also knows my options are limited, but he also knows I have the Elder Wand now and will have incentive to fight him individually, so he won't go for the quick stun, no stupid stupid of course he will but he'll _also _try to slow me down some other way, Harry is a weak point so he'll hit him too and make me sacrifice to protect him, watch for it watch for it._

They acted at the same instant. Alastor whipped his wand in front of himself, turning to the side, and cast two curses as quickly as most people could breathe - muttered spells that she didn't recognize from a distance, and without visible effect.. Simultaneously, Harry raised his wand, starting the movement for the Lesser Action of Shahryar's Delay. He didn't get past the first twirl of his wandtip, however, before Hermione violently shoved him aside. He was lifted bodily off the ground, through one of the thin cubicle partitions.

Before Harry had even landed in a tangle of white sheet and metal frame, Alastor had launched his next attack, and Hermione had raised a ward. Not her customary Roger's Shield, but Azarian Fire. The aqua flames were something he'd taught her, which was both a risk and an investment - he was intimately familiar with the spell, but it would remind him of how close he'd been to her. Hermione didn't think anyone could throw off the Lethe Touch; during the few moments it had bound her, it hadn't even felt like a separate constraint that _could _be fought. But that was still Alastor, and some part of him must still be vulnerable to emotional attack.

The Tower's chief of security didn't appear to even slow down, however, and he didn't try to break her ward, either. That was wise: when it crackled into life in front of her, Hermione had seen the blue flames surge unusually bright, hotter than she'd ever seen with the spell. The Wand.

He struck overhead, instead, snapping off a curse at the stone above her. "_Reducto_," he cast, and some of the fitted stones of the clinic roof, five feet above, exploded. Hermione had seen it coming, however, and brought a Roger's Shield over herself with time to spare. It left her wand in Ochs, so she capitalized, slashing down with a rightward flick of her wrist as loose stone and dust cascaded down around her. "_Hominem Revelio_," she said.

She felt a cool wind blow against her from four directions - from Harry, who was climbing to his feet to her left, from Alastor straight ahead (who was casting yet another spell without any visible effect), and from the two aurors who were Disillusioned or wearing Invisibility Cloaks (or more likely, both) as they crept up on her. The hidden aurors were nearly halfway to her.

Hermione took one with a stunner, using the back-draw from the gesture to bring up a wall of prisms behind her Azarian Fire. The other auror sprang to the attack, joining Alastor, who had taken the moment to raise new wards. She watched through blue flame, firing pass-through curses as quickly as she could. The Elder Wand gave each attack greater strength: her Bertram Bolts flew with the speed of thought and her stunners were so broad and bright, almost hungry for impact, despite the added effort of casting through her own shields. She dodged return attacks and dispersed an anaesthetic gas produced by the Disillusioned auror, whose presence she could still feel, roughly. She had no need of the exact counter-spell: brute disenchantment served just as well.

To her left, Harry had stayed crouched down in the cubicle into which she'd thrown him, keeping a low profile on one knee, wand in hand, just touching the floor and ready to be swept up in defense. He'd used a minor charm to clear a line of the sight through the cubicles to Moody, but was keeping out of the way.

As Hermione dodged yet another stunner, she saw the double flash as two Slow Blades of Unusually Specific Destruction popped against her Azarian Fire. Realization flooded her thoughts as she remembered the spells Alastor had cast without effect, twice before and once more recently. Lashing away a stunner with a dashed-off Rune of Abatement, Hermione reached out with her wand hand in the same gesture to raise Bartolomeo's Reckoning between Harry and Alastor, desperately hoping to block the third Slow Blade that must be headed towards Harry.

Too late, she recognized how Alastor's gambit had been telegraphed, and realized she'd been forced into turning almost the full of her back on her attackers in order to shield Harry. "_Lagann!"_ she heard from both her attackers, and her Azarian Fire died.

Hermione didn't try to turn back, but kept moving, lifting herself onto her toes and spinning into chaînés turns away from where she'd been standing, close in next to the white wall of the cubicles. A Bloodfoot Curse ripped along through the ground where she'd just been standing.

As the sickening purplish glow swept by, Hermione brought up her wand, recovering back into Pfugh and Mezzo Passo. The Disillusioned auror was fading from her awareness, but she could feel through the Revelation Charm that he was running towards her. She felt the churn of panic in the back of her mind - even with the Elder Wand, fighting Alastor would have been hard enough. She couldn't afford to deal with this other threat.

No sooner had she thought that, however, when she saw the stone floor five feet ahead of her split open, a hole of darker grey yawning and a wide area rippling with gray-limned spiderweb cracks. It was as though ten square feet of the clinic floor had melted and retained only a thin covering of its native stone. The auror that had been attacking became visible as he sank into the bubbling grey substance beneath the stone, sprawling forward in surprise, struggling as a sticky substance coated him with thick goo, pulling him down.

To her left, she could see Harry rise to his feet, grinning. The invisible auror strained against the expanding pool of sticky foam that had been partially transfigured under a thin shell of stone, but he only continued to sink: out of the fight.

Alastor's wolfish grin vanished. He went back on the attack, and curses flew between him, Harry, and Hermione like a hailstorm.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

Harry was awed and confused watching Hermione and Moody duel, as though he were watching experts play cricket (or Quidditch, for that matter, which had always seemed a mix of rugby and test cricket played a hundred yards off the ground). He understood the rules and the basic tactics, but he couldn't help but be aware that there were tactics and patterns that were moving beneath the surface that he could barely even notice, much less appreciate.

They both seemed indomitable. He'd had occasion to see fighting on the highest level from time to time, but the level of play here… he hadn't seen it since a bitter black night in Azkaban, many years ago. He could understand why, on a certain level: Moody and Hermione were both skilled combatants, intelligent and creative, with Moody's breadth of experience and inordinate canniness (and his use of both arms) matched against Hermione's inhuman reflexes and the Elder Wand. But more than that, the duels both then and now had been non-lethal. Neither Moody nor Hermione wanted to kill each other - in Moody's case probably because he wanted to preserve a key asset for Meldh - while in Azkaban the auror had been following protocol (and Voldemort had been toying with his prey). Duels to the death, Harry thought, usually ended much more quickly.

He kept his wand to the ground, and worked to help. He made sure to transfigure an air passage for the trapped auror, turning a tube of the foam into feathers. Then he tried to undermine Moody's footing in the same way he'd gotten the auror, but the Eye of Vance kept Moody apprised of a repeat of the same trick. Now that he was looking for it, Moody kept an eye for any shift in the stone around him. At least it cost him a moment to dispel the creeping transfiguration, giving Hermione opportunity to tear away one of his shields with a coruscating blue curse. Harry had continued the strategy, using partial transfiguration again and again in order to carve out falling rocks from the ceiling, turn parts of the walls behind Moody into ether or nitrous oxide, or simply destabilize the security chief's footing. He did anything he could do quickly and nonlethally, before Moody could spot the change in the stone.

Hermione caught three hexes on three consecutively appearing shields, lunging to one side as she counter-attacked with brilliant yellow bolts of light. Moody pivoted so that they missed, raising a new ward to protect himself, and Harry saw the pupil of the Eye of Vance vanish as it swiveled around inside of Moody's head. It didn't swivel back immediately.

_His reinforcements are almost here - we've been fighting for too long. They must have gone to prepare something on Moody's orders, in case he was defeated. Need to end this._

They simply got lucky, as so often happens in combat. Harry turned part of the ceiling into benzocaine, and a gobbet of the topical anaesthetic the size of a Bludger fell onto Moody, just as Hermione ripped away his last tactile ward. It splattered onto his arm and along his chest.

The auror slapped the chemical away, spattering the floor, but the damage was immediate. Within seconds, Moody's wand slipped from his numb grip. The determined security chief used the hand that hadn't been deadened to try to raise barriers in front of himself, but Hermione simply broke through them by main force, using the Elder Wand to dispel them with powerful charms.

It wasn't pretty or dramatic or clever… just a misstep by their opponent. Life wasn't a play, and sometimes that's how things went.

Harry thought of Voldemort's wasted last word, a moment of meaningless spite. Sometimes that's how things went.

Just before the end, Moody opened his mouth to say something, but Hermione stunned him without stopping to chat. He toppled over, an awkward-looking statue. She went to check on him, calling over her shoulder at him, "Call for help, while I make sure he'll be okay!"

Harry took a moment to summon up the thought of mankind unbridled, transcendent over death and time and pain. It was as easy as smiling. "_Expecto Patronum_."

The glowing silver humanoid stood before him, brilliant argent. Its light was a reminder of gentle things.

"Go and tell Headmistress McGonagall that everyone in the Tower but Harry and Hermione has been taken over by a villain named Meldh. Moody, Bones, Hig, Malfoy, and all Tower aurors have been controlled. Alert the Ministry and the Council of Westphalia," Harry said. Then he repeated it all again, just in case she was too startled to take it in, the first time. He hadn't seen much of her since she'd declined his offer to help him manage Britain; now they met only a few times a year. She was a full-time teacher and administrator, and he thought she liked it that way. She might not be ready to be dragged into this sort of madness again on a moment's notice. But she'd step up. She always did.

The humanoid was gone in moments, vanishing from sight with long silver strides that carried it longer than they should, right through the wall and towards the Tower exit.

Hermione stood up from where she'd been kneeling beside Moody. "He's fine."

Without another word, they sprinted on down the corridor, heading for the unsealed exit.

_No time to lose. Have to get to the meeting room. We need to escape. We can't possibly win against the entire Tower, Elder Wand or no._ Once again, Harry cursed his past self for his unfortunate foresight. Meldh had said the Lethe Touch had the "capacity for release," by recasting it and adding another word, or words. Harry had stopped Meldh from telling him the release command, anticipating just this scenario.

_I should really be glad_, he thought, wryly, as they raced down the corridor, _that a release command even exists. That always seems to be the case… a strange kind of "conservation of magic." No continuous effect is permanent unless there is a permanent loss, like with a sacrifice, or a permanent source of "power," like with the creation of Hogwarts on a ley line. It's a strange sort of _moral_ balance, one of those odd things that hints that maybe it's a designed system._

One day, he'd track down the designer - the people of Atlantis, an unknown civilization before them, or whoever else - and get some answers. And maybe help them fix some exploits, like the existence of the Killing Curse.

In a few seconds, they'd reached the exit of the clinic. The Tower was shaped like an enormous isosceles triangle, with the Mirror at the vertex angle. The clinic ran along one side of the complex, while research departments ran along the other. Larger departments, like Material Methods and the Extension Establishment, were located at the base of the triangle, where there was the most space. In the center was the meeting room. Not very far.

Hermione held up a hand to stop him as they reached the exit. The hand was pink and raw-looking; only slowly returning to its normal tones, but at least she had both limbs back. She peeked her head around.

Almost instantly, she jerked back, narrowly avoiding the red bolts of several stunners and the wash of flame from a prepared flame trap. A lock of her chestnut hair was scorched away, but she was otherwise unharmed.

"They're set and waiting," she said, scowling. "Neville, the twins, and that Russian witch, plus at least ten other aurors. And there will be more at successive defense points."

"Once their defenses are set up, they'll storm the clinic," Harry said, frowning. He gripped his wand more tightly at the thought. "There are weapons in Material Methods... things in development."

_Please, pretty please, I hope I anticipated this and set up yet another contingency_. He searched his brain for likely activation words in times of desperation. When he was seven, he'd come up with a set of signals, in case he was kidnapped, being held hostage, unjustly imprisoned, or a number of other scenarios. He'd given it to his parents and insisted they memorize it. Then he'd quizzed them about it for a month. Maybe one of those would work? It was a nostalgic call-back to a personal moment, and it was occurring to him in this moment of stress… maybe he'd set up the secret Spoon of Solving My Immediate Problems to respond to one of them?

"Chumble spuzz," he said, loudly and hopefully to the air. Nothing happened, except Hermione turned to stare at him. "Chumble spuzz chumble spuzz," he repeated. Still nothing. "Anatidaephobia! Anatidaephobia anatidaephobia! Plippy ploppy cheese nose!" No… no sudden crash of thunder or magical rescue centaurs.

Hermione was still staring at him, her brown eyes concerned. "Just trying some possible secret command words I might have made myself forget," he explained.

"Ah," she said. "I thought you might have had a stroke." She turned back to the door, and grabbed the goblin-silver barricade.

"What are you doing? We can't lock down the clinic and hope for rescue. We'd never hold out in the time it took an outside force to breach into the Tower," Harry objected, raising a hand to stop her.

"You're right," she said, rolling the seal over the door. It clicked into place in its silver brackets. "Which is why we can't try to fight through prepared defenses. We'll sacrifice our fall-back position, instead." She pointed at the wall. "Carve a big rectangle. I'll push through, and take them out from behind. We won't be able to retreat without the wall intact, but there are enough people out there to just carve through in fifteen minutes with the Reductor curse, anyway."

"There's no going back from that," Harry said. But he was already running over to the wall that she'd indicated, laying his wandtip on it.

"There's never been any going back… not since an afternoon on a train with a very annoying boy," Hermione said. He glanced back at her to see a tight smile on her face.

It took only a moment to transfigure four thin slices of stone in the shape of a doorway, turning the substance into grease. A rectangular block of stone was now separate from the wall, ready to be moved. An old trick - one of his first partial transfiguration tricks. He stepped back.

Harry felt his stomach tighten with tension as Hermione stepped up to the stone and flexed her hands open and closed. She put her palms on the block, and grinned. "It's my own fault, really, for knowing the six quarks."

She shook her head, as though rueful, and then pushed.

The huge block of stone slid slowly for a moment, as though stuck, but then Hermione lurched forward and slammed her shoulder against it. With the strength of a goddess, she shoved the stone through and out. It tipped forward as it reached the end, chipping the upper part of the hole, and then it fell forward with a colossal crash, smashing against the floor hard enough to make Harry's teeth feel like they were rattling in his head.

Then Hermione was through, wand whipping into several spells before she was even out in the hall, and Harry could hear the sound of battle. "Left floor," she called back to him, urgently, and he hurriedly leapt forward, to touch his wand back to the stone. He began to transfigure, pushing out into the stone. Harry moved the point of change down away from him and below. He couldn't see, so he was forced to guess at how far away from him he needed the effect; he knew the layout of the Tower intimately, of course, but not where the enemy was in the corridor to Hermione's left. The larger the area he affected, the more time it would take; he settled on transfiguring the same size of trap as before, transforming another block of stone into sticky foam beneath a thin stone shell.

All the while, he could hear curses and hexes and charms, barked orders. He heard the crackle of flame and the sizzle of spells. And all the while, he heard Hermione continue to cast, almost as quickly as she could speak. She didn't tire and didn't pause. Was this the Elder Wand? Was it just her?

There was a crash in the corridor and a hiss of foam before his transfiguration was over. Harry ended the effect.

"Right fl-" Hermione called out. But before she finished her thought, there was an explosion, and she was thrown back through the hole in the wall, limp, along with thick black smoke. She crashed through two of the cubicle partitions, landing bonelessly. Her robes were smouldering.

"Got her!" Harry heard Neville Longbottom call from the hall, cheerfully. "She'll be okay, don't worry! Load it again!"

_What did Neville have? Did Neville have a _rocket launcher_?_

Harry leapt in front of the hole and raised his wand. _Need to buy time. _"_Prismatis!_" he cast. A sparkling multicoloured wall burst forth from his wand to cover the aperture - not an instant too soon, either, as George Weasley appeared from the hall, dashing forward. The Weasley twin checked his charge as he saw the Prismatic Wall. George smirked.

"Hello -" he said.

"-Harry," finished Fred, stepping in next to his brother.

Together, they raised their wands. He spared a glance back at Hermione. She still wasn't moving. She looked badly injured, crumpled and broken-limbed. Her eyes were open. Sightless.

Harry felt a moment of despair.

_This is all so stupid and so pointless. We could have set up the Goblet different ways. We could have tried binding everyone with it - redundant contracts, nested together. To have come so far, and to be so close to success… we were really doing it, after all. We could have saved everyone._

_It would have been perfect. Now this sad and stupid ending. _Just like Voldemort, who wasted every chance he ever had, even his last chance at dignity, and now he's lost in a prison of metal and magic, hidden somewhere in the Tower beyond Harry's reach.

"_Lagann!"_ cast the twins, together, and the Breaking Drill shattered Harry's shield. It vanished, and Harry staggered back.

And even at this moment, when all was lost, his thoughts didn't stop. Instead, they came faster - faster and faster, still thinking of the last moment he'd ever spend with Professor Quirrell - Lord Voldemort. Wasting his own last moment.

_That scornful last word. That wasted last word. _And he could almost hear it again, now, as the twins leveled their wands at him. He could hear that cold laugh, and the roaring mocking hateful last word: "Bah!"

Bah.

The instant of understanding was like a breath of sweet air to a drowning man's lungs.

"Bah. _Egeustimentis Ba_," Harry said, loudly.

The twins swayed in place slightly, blinking. They lowered their wands, and looked at each other, raising their eyebrows.

It was suddenly very quiet. It was suddenly very still.

And for once in their life, the Weasley twins found they didn't have a single clever thing to say.


	53. Levee

Eventually, of course, help arrived. A gathered force of Russian, Chinese, American, and Korean witches and wizards had answered the urgent plea of Headmistress McGonagall, who had acted swiftly and with her usual competence to demand assistance. Indeed, they had sent their most elite response teams: the Boston Brahmins, the Siberian Rakshasa, the Jīngluò, and the Three Treasures. After an initial accident in the Receiving Room, it took half an hour to negotiate a peaceful end to rising hostility and suspicion. Harry's message had stated that everyone in the Tower had been suborned by an intruder, and it was - unsurprisingly - difficult to prove that this was no longer true… especially since the visitors from around the world brought grim news of their own.

The Muggle news services had broken into panic - in some cases, outright hysteria - over mass disappearances that had occurred in major cities around the globe. Thousands of people, maybe tens of thousands, had gone missing. Entire neighborhoods had been emptied of their populations in less than a day. The Witch-Watchers and their counterparts in other countries had passed on the news, of course, but few in the magical world had been able to say what it might mean. Such feats of malice were beyond the abilities of any person or persons yet known. Nothing on the scale had been done in many generations, since the era when magical combat between powerful wizards depended heavily on controlling crowds of armed Muggles with charms and threats.

Also troubling was the restive behavior of the goblins. It had already been apparent that all seven goblin cities had been in communication with each other, and most particularly with Ackle. Spies and spells revealed that these Beings had gone further, and that a fearsome gathering of goblins had massed on the plains near Ackle, heedless of Muggle eyes. The goblin nation, encamped in their thousands, rejected all emissaries and inquiries and threats with cold words and armed guards. Magical observers could only watch them huddle amid brightly-colored canvas and clockwork beasts of silver, and wonder.

There were rumors and suspicions, especially after two exhausting hours had been spent communicating the events of the past two days and all the concerns that faced them. Communications were sent back to different Things, and responses multiplied by the minute. Grindelwald's cell had been examined, and the shackles of the Abiku were checked, and the dark pit of Sarai's oubliette was secured. But the monsters were all snug in their captivity, and worried minds turned to other possibilities. The name of Merlin was mentioned. Atlantis was mentioned. Only a few knew enough to speak of the Three, and tremble.

Some did not react well. A seer in Istanbul had gone mad, screaming about the return of the Dökkálfr - sheer madness, for that grim faerie people had been gone from the earth for a hundred generations. And a Slytherin boy named Lawrence felt a cold shiver run up his spine as he read the late edition of _The Daily Prophet_ and recognized that, once more, deathly dangerous events were building on the near horizon.

And yet for all this, as Harry Potter-Evans-Verres sat in a crowded meeting room, surrounded by some of the most important and powerful individuals on the planet, drafting orders to be delivered to the Muggle Prime Minister and Minister of Magic Carmel N'Goma, and struggling to understand the sheer scale of the threat that loomed… for all this, Harry yet found himself wondering about Voldemort.

_Where are you, Professor?_ They could probably find him with the thaumometers, the same way they'd located Horcruxes. But Harry had lost not only the memories of where he'd hidden away Voldemort's cell, he'd even lost _how_ he'd hidden it away. Just thinking about it, he knew he'd be unable to look for the secret prison within the Tower… it was too dangerous for him. _What sorts of traps or obfuscation did I put in place? Hermione will have to look for it, but will she even agree? Yes, she will, once I put her to imagining an endless hell of solitary confinement and sensory deprivation. We will have to -_

"Harry!" said Mafalda Hopkirk, irritably, snapping her fingers. The buxom head of the Unspeakables had clearly been trying to get his attention for some time. Amelia Bones and Reg Hig, standing next to her, looked almost as upset.

"Sorry," Harry said, feeling his face redden. He stood up from his seat at the conference table, glancing around the meeting room. No one else seemed to have noticed his distraction. Moody was conferring with his aides, several of the Americans and Chinese, and three representatives from the Muggle government; Cedric was speaking urgently with Hermione, the Shichinin - why did Neville have a black eye? - and the Koreans; a pale Umbridge was sitting silently in the corner while the two sfaironauts (Percy's brother, Ron, and Basil Horton) spoke with Draco; and two of the Returned, Hyori and Esther, were standing watchfully with several aurors.

Harry turned to Hopkirk, taking a deep breath and trying to settle himself. "Sorry, Mafalda," he said again. "It's been a difficult couple of days. Where are we?"

"We're in crisis," Hopkirk replied, succinctly. Her smooth, commanding voice was clipped.

"While we were trapped and enslaved, the world went mad," said Hig. He rubbed the end of his plum nose, sighing. "I have to leave almost immediately to start dealing with just the problems springing up in the Americas. Thousands of people are missing from New York, Rio de Janeiro, and Mexico City. And Van Rensselaer, Randolphs, and Hardicanute," and Hig indicated three of the Boston Brahmins, "all have reports of other disturbances. Infierno has been breached, and twenty dark wizards and witches have escaped custody."

"La Boca del Infierno has been broken into?" broke in Bones, sharply. Without waiting for a reply, she stabbed a finger at one of Moody's aides, who compliantly approached. "Send a team of Hit Wizards to check on Howard. Gecko protocol." The aide's face paled, and he raced away.

"Our prophecy-analysts agree with the verdict of the Pool of Demand… something is happening, bigger than… well, bigger than anything they've ever seen or heard of," said Hopkirk. She sounded calm, but her shoulders were rigid with tension.

"Time is frozen," said Moody, who approached. There was a grim set to his jaw. "Time _everywhere_ is frozen. We tried to set some surveillance in place and begin preparations, and we lost two aurors. Bad deaths. Shouldn't be possible to do that, but the second attempt was made in Japan, and it failed too."

"I checked back in with Powis," said Hermione, who joined the conclave, Cedric and Draco following. "Urg says he's gotten messages from Curd, and it confirms what Cedric just told me. Thousands of goblins from all over the world have gathered in Ackle."

"Apparating, though most of them only recently got wands?" said Bones, in surprise. She checked herself in a moment. "No, of course not… stockpiled portkeys." She frowned, grimly. "And that hints at long preparation."

"We knew they'd been gathering weapons," said Harry, wearily. "We were going to… I don't even know what we were going to do. Speak to them, I suppose. This isn't a surprise, though." He felt sick to his stomach. He knew that it wasn't the right way to think about it - to think that they _owed_ him anything, just because he'd finally begun to put an end to years of oppression. A good person stopped doing evil because it was evil, not because they wanted something from the victim. But it was still a bitter pill to swallow.

"After all we've done for those vile little creatures," said Hopkirk. Moody and Bones nodded, their faces sour. Draco looked torn between smugness and horror.

Hermione frowned and glanced at Harry, but said nothing.

Harry imagined all the deadly things that could be done with goblincraft and a little ingenuity. He imagined all the damage a mass mob of people could do when enchanted, even without magic. He imagined the power of ancient magic from ages past, wielded today. He imagined all the unknowns that might yet present themselves.

"Assets," he said, abruptly, swallowing the bile rising in his throat. "What are our assets?"

They collaborated to tick them off, estimating the number of witches and wizards they could bring to bear in battle in different scenarios, and their effectiveness. The leaders of the Jīngluò and Rakshasa joined the group, working with Hig to fill in the gaps. Everyone lied to everyone else, omitting available artifacts and warriors from their accounting, but it wasn't too long before the small group had an estimate of the total armed force they might be able to summon, if every member of the Confederation could be brought to bear.

There were perhaps a million wizards and witches in the world, with higher concentrations in a few places like Britain (for reasons that might best be described as "imperial"). Perhaps half of that number had more than rudimentary magical schooling, and an even smaller proportion could be said to be ready to fight. All told, an optimistic estimate of the wizards available to fight in a world-threatening emergency - like massed armies of Muggles or goblins - would be something like fifty thousand. The actual forces they'd probably have on hand on short notice would be something like a tenth of that total.

"Are we moving too fast?" Cedric asked, as they reached their grim conclusions. "We don't even know if the disappearances or the goblins are related to each other, or to Meldh's attack here, or even if there's going to be conflict."

"I think," said Hermione, carefully, "that we should probably work on the assumption that all of the events are related in some way, even if it's not the way we might think. We certainly shouldn't start any accidental wars, but it's the Three, after all, not the One. There are two more Meldhs out there, and he told Harry that there was going to be violence."

"We should assume the worst," said Draco with a look of gentle scorn for Cedric. "But even if wizards are outnumbered by goblins or Muggles, even if it's three to one, we can win. As long as we know where they will strike and prepare for rapid movement, we'll wipe out any attack."

Harry held up his hand and waited for the bustle to quiet down. He looked to Madame Bones.

"Supreme Mugwhump, if I might?" She nodded assent, impatiently, and Harry raised his voice. "We need to prioritize and organize. We need communication between decision-makers. We need to determine likely targets, and likely forces at our command. We need to try to figure out who is behind this - if it is the Three - and what they want."

He pointed at Moody and Hig, in turn. "Reg, I know you want to go home, but you need to have home brought to you. You will work with Moody and sort out our vulnerabilities… no, the _world's_ vulnerabilities. If possible, get in touch with He Jin of the Court of Rubies, and let him take the lead."

Harry next turned to Draco and Bones. "Draco, you and Madame Bones might best work on a command structure and mobilizing our forces. Everyone you can think of, and assume some groups will betray us - either out of short-sighted ignorance or deliberate treachery. Find the Minister and Percy and ask them to help."

He turned to the remaining individuals. "Our friends from other countries need to assign emergency plenipotentiary representatives. Everyone else, we'll have specific things for you to do, shortly." He drew a deep breath, reaching back to pull his ponytail snug. "Listen, Draco is right. Some of you know me, but I think I can say without ego that everyone here knows _of _me. And trust me when I say that we can do this. Even if we're surprised by an attack, and an enemy has local superiority, wizards have superior mobility and firepower in almost every direct conflict. Even if this is the worst-case scenario - a return to the old days we've read about in books, with armies of thousands and goblin armies wielding their weapons - we'll be evenly matched with them. If we keep our heads about us, we can _do this_."

Many people nodded firmly, cheering at the little speech. Placing their faith in him. Some scowled or rolled their eyes. They needed no encouragement, or didn't buy it. A few only looked angry. He didn't know why.

"Meldh put those of us in the Tower through hell, but we beat him. We beat him with our wits and our preparation. We can do that now, if the Three are really attacking on this scale - really stepping out of the shadows. They're using all the powers of the old world, everything that's always worked for villains like them in the days gone by. But we're going to use all the powers of our new world to match them, and we're going to beat them."

Before Harry had finished speaking, an auror had appeared at the front entrance to the meeting room, his face shiny with sweat and filled with horror. Another messenger was on his heels, and she rushed to Mafalda Hopkirk.

_Oh no._

"Madame Bones," he said, his voice strained. "An army of Muggles has attacked the Ministry. It's been evacuated and they're holding off the enemy, but there are thousands of them. And Howard Prison has been breached. And there's -"

He was interrupted by a short shriek from Hopkirk, who was swaying where she stood, drunkenly, her face stricken.

All eyes turned to her.

"The Unseelie have risen. The flesh-harrowers. The ravers. The sailors of the sea of teeth. Oh Merlin, no, no, no… to hell with Muggles and goblins, the _Unseelie _have returned to the world." Her voice was strangled, and it was hard to say if it was the shock of her words or the dissolution of her normal composure that was the more disturbing. "It's not… we can't... oh, Merlin, why? You do not call up that which you cannot put down. We're… we're..." She swayed again, putting a hand on the shoulder of an adjunct, overcome with horror.

"We're all going to die," Hopkirk whispered. "This whole world is going to die."


	54. Hell

_And the whole earth was of one language, and of one speech._

_And it came to pass, as they journeyed from the east, that they found a plain in the land of Shinar; and they dwelt there._

_And they said one to another, Go to, let us make brick, and burn them thoroughly. And they had brick for stone, and slime had they for morter._

_And they said, Go to, let us build us a city and a tower, whose top may reach unto heaven; and let us make us a name, lest we be scattered abroad upon the face of the whole earth._

_And the Lord came down to see the city and the tower, which the children of men builded._

_And the Lord said, Behold, the people is one, and they have all one language; and this they begin to do: and now nothing will be restrained from them, which they have imagined to do._

_Go to, let us go down, and there confound their language, that they may not understand one another's speech._

_So the Lord scattered them abroad from thence upon the face of all the earth: and they left off to build the city._

_Genesis 11:1-8_

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_Trafalgar Square, London_

_May 19th, 1999_

_4:40 PM_

The deep timbre of the anchor's voice was so low-pitched that it was hard to understand over Andrea's earpiece, and she had to ask him to repeat his question. She held one hand over the earpiece, both to help her make out his bass rumble and to serve as a visual excuse for the repetition.

"Andrea, have you been able to speak to anyone there to get an idea of what's happening?" Bill repeated in an anchor's practiced voice: warm and concerned, but confident enough to reassure. Andrea was reasonably certain that his sort were grown in a vat somewhere.

"There is a lot of confusion, and a lot of fear, Bill," she said, shaking her head and using the obvious for filler as she planned the rest of her response. "We're not sure what is going on, but we know that it's something serious… and something dangerous. Officials here will only say that there has been a dangerous incident to our south - something so dangerous that they've evacuated everyone from the government buildings in Whitehall: the office of the Treasury, the Old Admiralty, and very nearly the whole of this area, the seat of the whole British government."

"And just to confirm, we haven't been able to get any more details? Theories right now range from some sort of chemical spill to an attack with biological weapons, and many experts have stated that they believe this incident is related to the recent mass disappearances around the world."

"There are no details available, Bill, but we can hear regular explosions coming from beyond the cordon... and the police here are preventing us from advancing any further," Andrea said. _Especially after what happened to the BBC crew._ The thought of those poor people - of what she'd seen on the feed from their cameras - it made her skin crawl.

There were seventeen crews here, and they'd all huddled around a monitor set up on the back gate of the BBC ops truck. They'd sworn not to say anything until they were cleared to do so by the authorities. How could they do otherwise?

The rough footage showed the crew advancing down the riverwalk on the Victoria Embankment, skirting a police cordon that hadn't yet been established. One of the producers was audible, talking to the other in rough, quiet tones as they moved at nearly a jog down the pavement. There was a buzz of indiscriminate noise behind her words, and eventually it grew loud enough that they all fell silent, rather than raising their voices to be heard. The late afternoon sun cut sharp shadows from the trees to their right. No one else was visible.

The BBC crew had paused for a moment to get an establishing shot of the river and Big Ben, turning the camera south along the deserted street and panning past a long line of motionless cars and buses.

Then the camera had rocked and swerved, dipping forward as someone made a guttural sound of surprise or alarm. For a moment, all that was visible was blurry pavement, and then the camera reared back up and to the right. For one sickeningly long second - no more than a second - a heavyset woman in a thick, tan apron was visible, eyes wide and staring. Her hair was streaming down the side of her face, torn loose from a bun, and there was a thick section of pipe clutched in her hands. It was covered in blood, and a matted wad of gorey hair dangled from its end. There were other people visible behind her, packed into a dense mob. They were marching steadily forward in a single mass that parted around the Fleet Air Arm Memorial statue, heading towards the BBC crew. A few people were distinct in the crowd: a man with a rifle in his hands, a child with a knife, a woman with some sort of large tube hugged to her chest.

Then the second was past, and the camera lurched away and leapt at the pavement, smashing itself dark.

"We know her Majesty the Queen has been confirmed as safe, and also the British Prime Minister," said the anchor, "but how much is this going to impact the government there?

Andrea nodded thoughtfully to show that this was a meaningful conversation and not just speculation, and answered, "Some of the most important leaders of the country may be in danger, but we just don't know enough yet to say for sure, Bill."

"Thank you, Andrea. We'll be back with you later. Stay safe out there," Bill said, and she nodded sagely, as though she had a fucking clue whether or not she was safe. "Let's turn now to analysis from Lieutenant General Hassan. General, what are some of the possibilities we might be looking at?"

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_The entrance to the Ministry of Magic, Gwydyr House, London_

After ten minutes of hell, the aurors began using lethal spells. There hadn't been any order to that effect, but in a moment of desperation or anger an auror animated the centaur statue on the fountain in the center of the atrium. The stone sculpture clopped down off of its perch with granite feet, nocked an arrow, and sent the yard-long stone bolt across the atrium and through the chests of two Muggles. They crumpled to the ground, dead. Two other Muggles snatched up their weapons - a knife and a gun - but a taboo had been broken. Another auror lit the clothing of his attackers on fire with a word, and the room dissolved into blood and battle.

Some of the staff and aurors at the Ministry recognized what was happening for what it was. The more learned wizards and the amateur historians knew why the time-turners weren't working and why they couldn't Apparate, even though the only enemy visible was a monstrous wall of hate-faced Muggles. They'd read the stories of the great battles of the old days, when warlord wizards had matched their armies against each other.

At least now there was no more wondering about where the missing Muggles had gone, stolen in their thousands from cities around the world. Some were here. _Many_ were here.

History was full of accounts of wars much like this one; as the Mhlongo Scroll said, "_The most fundamental principle of war is control. Your beasts are a steady wave, and it is your task to unsteady your opponent, the better to wet them. Direct your attacks so as to limit their options, not to damage the foe. Then the waves will overtake them."_

Casting spells took energy and will. Even the most powerful wizard wouldn't have an infinite supply of both. Keep them pinned down and eliminate their options for escape. Eventually, they would tire or make a mistake or lose heart. And as every student of magical history knew, that's when the Muggles got you.

The wars of armies and attrition had been gone for generations, abandoned with the Statute of Secrecy and the creation of modern magical nation-states after the Peace of Westphalia. Private armies of Muggles were not conducive to secrecy nor governance, and they had become a thing of the past.

Unfortunately, it seemed the past had caught up with them.

The well-equipped and well-trained aurors stationed at the Ministry of Magic had done their jobs. Those few stationed outside had alerted their compatriots the instant the massed wall of humanity had charged down the street towards the Ministry, a mad parade of mayhem that seemingly had come from nowhere. The aurors had managed to evacuate almost everyone except for active defenders; they'd gotten out word of the attack; and they'd sealed the Ministry at three points. The stout doors hadn't stopped the Muggle mob for very long, but successive layers of wards and traps had sealed away the atrium for nearly an half hour, despite the concussive power of the weapons the Muggles had brought. Bodies soon littered the streets outside, mounded up among the Muggle government buildings, torn by shards of crystal, burnt by acid, and otherwise ruined by every craft of magic. It was magical slaughter, and it was madness. But the Ministry stood.

Then chariots of fire swept down into the atrium from some sideways place, drawn by horses of stomping flame, and Muggles began to pour out among the defenders - far more than should ever have fit on those chariots, as though the phaetons of fire had no limits on their capacity. It was a novel attack, an _impossible_ attack, casting an army in the midst of the aurors despite the thick protections that should have prevented such transportation.

Many of the Muggles were already injured or covered with blood, stained with the efforts of previous misdeeds. They attacked with purpose and intensity, but showed no malice or madness. They had guns, clubs, knives, and improvised weapons. And there seemed no end to them. Hundreds. Thousands. More.

The atrium soon began to fill with the dead and dying. One auror team fought to create a new perimeter, conjuring acrid smoke in clouds enough to choke the Muggles. But their attackers only staggered forward through the smoke, climbing over the fallen in an endless flood of grim murder, beating savagely on shields and wards with their weapons.

The defenders tore through them: stabbing hails of splinters; infectious pulses of green light; blasts of acid-filled wind. Each dead Muggle was replaced with two more, and when shields began to fail under the rain of blows, attackers began to slip through the gaps. Determined fingers seized one auror's arm when he was a trifle too slow, dragging him down in an instant. A man with an iron club smashed it against the wizard's skull, and he stopped moving. The man pulped the auror's head with two more blows before the Killing Curse took him from the world. Too late.

The defenders fell back to a choke point. They abandoned the atrium, filling it with a last billowing cloud of fire and smoke, and then took the elevators down a floor to the DMLE. They destroyed the magical lifts, filled the shaft with rubble, and began creating traps and barriers.

It should have been impossible for Muggles to breach the Ministry proper. But then, it should have been impossible for Muggles to even find the entrance to the Ministry, much less break through to the atrium.

The defenders made frantic calls on their bubblers for reinforcements, desperate to create some kind of plan to drive away the enemy. The possibility of simply abandoning the premises was considered, but discarded; it wasn't a matter of pride or principle that they needed to retain control, but rather a concern for all the objects safeguarded in the Department of Mysteries, and the hidden hand that might be seeking them. There were secret and powerful things under guard there, some beyond the understanding of the Unspeakables themselves, and they could not be allowed to fall into the wrong hands.

Two dozen wizards arrived by Vanishing Cabinet, and two dozen more began to harry the close-packed horde surrounding the Ministry, killing as many as they could with their most devastating spells. Still other aurors flew to Gringotts, hoping to beg or bribe to borrow the dragons that the goblins kept. Beasts had been a method of Muggle control too, once. Such control might even have been their intended purpose. At this moment, however, the doors were found sealed, and another hope dashed.

The wizards were remembering and employing some of their more creative methods of killing _en masse_. The Butterball Charm turned the road liquid, drowning its victims in a slurry of slippery stone. Mandrakes had been fetched, and their screams killed everyone around them. And magical fires consumed Muggle after Muggle. The enemy fell in droves. But there was simply _no end_ to the Muggles. There were thousands of them, pouring in every minute without stop, unleashed from some hidden hoard of humanity. It wasn't fair. No, worse than that… it wasn't even _sane_. It was as though the hidden hand behind the attack didn't care about their forces or any perceivable objective. It was all pointless - all the fear and blood and anger.

Some of the Muggles had little packages that exploded. Blastbombs. Inside the Ministry, those who had fallen back to the lower level felt the stone around them shake and heard explosions, and cast grim looks at each other. Even if the explosives couldn't really reach them, eventually more flaming chariots would arrive among them.

The Muggles were coming. Endless. Remorseless. The defenders of the Ministry of Magic were fighting an ocean, and the ocean was winning.

It is perhaps understandable that some began to weep when they heard from their bubblers that a wave of Muggles, packed in a plenitude without end, had appeared at Hogsmeade. And there was no one to stop them, for there were other attacks happening… all over the world. Even the Tower was under attack, locked down and sealed off. Tears were only natural.

Many of the aurors had children at Hogwarts, after all.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

"_Oh, sacred Ether and you winds, masters of speed! You, waters of rivers and you, endless laughter of Ocean's waves! Oh, Mother Earth! And you, Sun, who sees all!_

_Look at me! Look at my suffering, I, a god who must suffer the punishment of gods!_

_Look at what outrageous torment I must endure for countless years! Look at these dire shackles this new ruler of the Gods has devised for me!_

_Ah! Ah! I groan for my suffering now and for all the suffering to come. When will I see their end?_

_But what am I saying? I know the future and all that it will bring and I know all my suffering beforehand, so I must endure as best I can what Necessity has sent upon me because she cannot be resisted._

_Yet, neither can I speak nor stay silent about this agony that I am forced to suffer. I've hunted down and stolen, inside the hollow of a fennel's stalk, the seed of fire, a gift that has proven itself to be the teacher of every craft and the greatest resource for humans. Such is the crime I have committed and this is the penalty I am to suffer: nailed and chained on this rock beneath the open sky."_

_Prometheus Bound, _Aeschylus

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_Tidewater, Boston, United States of America_

_Earlier_

_The same day_

It was a fine, clear afternoon, and Councilor Littlebrook Strongbound was having his mulled egg-wine on the grotto balcony. The Alþing had a lovely view of the harbour, sticking up from among the lesser buildings of Tidewater with sharp concrete edges, and one of the small perks of his long tenure on the Council was access to an office like this one. He sipped his drink and looked out on the water, sighing contentedly.

Already, today had been a productive day. Hig had been playing things close to the vest for months when it came to the Brits and their damned Treaties. Strongbound had known it was all a power play by his old foe. He'd tried to shore up support along traditional lines, making a deal with that little snakeling son of Lucius, only to discover that the little brute had turned the whole Independence movement out for fools, capitalizing on the idiocy of the Thunderer and the Cappadocians' brute hatred, precipitating a conflict that was obviously doomed from the start. The very evening of that one-day war had left the Malfoy boy in a position to negotiate his way into the top of that stupid Tower hospital/school/Thing, but had left all of his erstwhile allies out in the cold. There was no chance of a better deal at that point, and so they had supported him, reasoning that it was better to have a seat at the table than be left alone in the world.

Now it was becoming clear that the Malfoy boy had few ideals, if any, and was just waiting for his chance to depose the scar-faced pottery king. And Hig - damn that ugly stump! - was in the catbird seat. Strongbound could see it, now… Hig had spent months railing against the "new dark lord" and the Treaty for Health and Life in order to maximize his bargaining position. Then Hig made one trip to America, and suddenly he was open to a deal. And the deal he made with the Goddess just happened to include enormous subsidies to Salem and the Russell Institute, arithmancers to "help" with the Council finances, the end to damnable British support for the damned Cypriots, and the elimination of tariffs. Hig claimed personal credit for the feat - meaning that he could claim the gratitude of the monied merchants, the support of the elites, and the appeasement of all the Turcophiles who'd long distrusted him.

But today, Strongbound would finally begin to make inroads. He examined the drink in his fingers, smiling at the thought. Ever since the centaur bill, Hig had held the upper hand on access to the Earnest Ears Bureau. More of his review requests were approved by the oversight committee than anyone else, meaning he had access to essentially any of the wealth of information that the Council programs were always bringing in. Finally, though, Strongbound had struck gold with one of his own requests - one of the few he'd gotten past the committee - and soon, things would change. A delightful, dirty little secret between two of the councilors on the committee, and now he knew it. It was leverage, and that leverage would translate into information, and that information would translate into power.

Strongbound sipped his warm drink, and began to be happy and make plans.

"Hoooo," called someone from the street, their voice lilting and strange. Strongbound frowned, and leaned forward, to peer over the balcony railing. There was no one standing on the cobblestones below: the afternoon light showed nothing but a scrap of lone parchment scraping its way along in the gentle breeze.

Strongbound leaned back.

There was someone behind him. He could feel it.

He turned.

_Large eyes. Black and oily. Wet._

_White skin. Flaky, run through with spidering cracks. Ragged in places, as gnawed._

_Long, thin limbs. Sparse flesh. Lumpy joint._

_Mouth. Smile._

_Smile._

_The thing turned hand finger open smile. Teeth dark touching rough. Rasping. Skin part yawn moving scream. Night whisper lust end cut. Thousand no my ripping beyond wet. Rough. Red. Black. Black. Cut. Scream._

_Smile._

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

It took Councilor Littlebrook Strongbound a very long time to die.

When he finally did, the Alþing of the Mystical and Benevolent Council of Westphalia was left quiet and empty of life. A bundiwig remained to walk the halls alone, pausing to lick wet spots on the floor now and again, its swarming mass of chizpurfles milling about on its back. The gaunts moved on to the next taste of magic and time, moving from building to building in Tidewater. None escaped, their magic dying in their veins. Viscs lazily flapped through the air in their wake, borne on tissue-thin wings.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_Hogsmeade, Scotland_

_At the same time_

_The same day_

While a few stubborn and brave wizards stood their ground to try to drive off some of the Muggles, almost all the residents and workers of Hogsmeade evacuated their little village as soon as they saw the steady-marching mass of the unmagical. The enemy's presence was known instantly, of course. Even before the Tower existed, security precautions had included the closest settlement to the school. Nicomedius Salamander and Holly Nguyễn had been stationed there. It was a tedious assignment and one dreaded by aurors, but the pair had voluntary service in Azkaban on their record, and so their careers had stalled. They were on duty, standing idly outside of Honeydukes, when they heard the first screams and saw someone send up red sparks.

Despite their current status, the two aurors were well-trained and experienced. Salamander alerted the DMLE and the Receiving Room, while Nguyễn took to the air to reconnoiter the enemy.

Nguyễn barely caught sight of the mob before she was attacked. They were lucky or too numerous, and a bullet tore through her outer thigh before she could shield herself appropriately. She yelped and wobbled in her seat, but held on, pulling up and away. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Firearms were surprising and instantaneous, but they only shot bullets - a repetitive and easily countered attack. Even if Nguyễn hadn't been a Muggleborn, she would have been able to deal with a few gun-toting Muggles.

A _thousand_ gun-toting Muggles were a different story. They were crowding into Hogsmeade, their numbers so great that their weight brought down fences, and several of them were actually being pushed through shop windows as the village streets were filled to overflowing. Nguyễn saw broad red puddles, smeary with dozens of trudging Muggles, where they'd already seized some poor innocents. She didn't see whoever it was who'd sent up red sparks, but scraps of bloody robes were visible underfoot in front of Dervish &amp; Banges. The front of the Magic Neep had been smashed in, and smoke was pouring out.

Nguyễn circled the mass in a wide arc, high enough so that their thrown weapons fell short, and looked for the wizards in control. _Some sort of bus or plane must have brought all of them_, she thought as she tore open a package of Wondo-Slo-Blood, slapping the wet cloth on her leg. _Too bloody many for… well, even portkeys wouldn't work. You'd need hundreds of them._

But she saw no apparent magical attackers and no apparent transportation, which was very worrying. It was as though a football stadium full of unusually well-armed hooligans had taken it upon themselves to go have a pint at the Hog's Head, and had just walked straight into a magically protected village that was stacked with Anti-Muggle Charms.

Nguyễn returned to Salamander, finding him standing outside of the Three Broomsticks, and felt panic rising in her guts. It got worse when Salamander told her curtly that the Ministry was under siege by Muggles, and that the Tower had been in lockdown and wasn't operational, and that there were a hundred other things going wrong all over the world. Had the Statute of Secrecy just been broken somehow, everywhere? Had Muggles gone to war on wizards? She'd always thought that was Slytherin bunk, but there didn't seem to be any alternative.

"Everybody safely out?" she asked Salamander, dropping down next to him. She remained on her broom, with one hand pressed to her thigh.

Salamander shook his head, and slammed the heel of one hand into the inn's door again. "No! Almost everyone responded to the alarm, but this idiot won't leave - I was about to knock in this door and drag her out!"

Nguyễn glanced over her shoulder. The Muggles would be there in minutes, a well-armed wall of humanity. She shouted at the door, "Madame Rosmerta? It's Holly! You need to leave - you need to get out _now_! There are hundreds of Muggles coming, and they've already killed some people! We can't protect you if they try to get in and get you… a few casks of butterbeer aren't worth your life!"

There was a heavy thump, and the door opened. Madame Rosmerta peeked out. She'd been rejuvenated, but she'd already been so young that her appearance was little changed: bouncy brown hair, pale green eyes, and a skeptical pinch to her mouth. "Muggles? Well, why don't -"

"_Confundus_," Nguyễn cast, her wand a flicker of motion. She didn't bother with any alternate states of mind, and leaving just a dull-witted confusion in place. She pulled a Safety Stick from inside of her robes.

"Wait!" said Salamander, reaching up to grab her wrist. "The Tower just got out of lockdown - I already told you." He handed her a milled metal rod, dimpled in the center. "Use this. It's international, but I don't have any others, and we can't take the time to side-along her."

Nguyễn didn't argue. She put the rod right into Rosmerta's hands, then mimed a bending motion to the woman. Rosmerta complied, a dull look in her eyes. The rod bent, and she was lifted sideways and away, spinning off into a direction that didn't exist and vanishing from sight with the familiar, comforting sound of a portkey.

"Signal to Hogwarts. That's where they're headed. And call for help," said Nguyễn. She kicked her broom up to be even with the roof, and heard the sound of Muggle feet, far too close.

"Call where?" Salamander asked. "Broom," he said to his pouch, and mounted. He rose up next to her. "The DMLE and the Tower are both under attack. We can fly up to the castle, but who are we going to call to come help? Those are the people who should be helping _us_!"

"Call _someone _\- _anyone_!" snapped Nguyễn. "Bubble anyone you know who's stationed at a Safety Pole. Or Howie - maybe they can spare some people."

The two aurors pulled away as the first Muggles came into view. They sped off towards the castle.

No one stationed at the Safety Poles or Howard Prison answered. Either they were too busy - an ominous possibility - or they were unable to pick up a bubbler at all - a much worse possibility.

Nguyễn and Salamander put on more speed and tried to think of someone else they could call for help… someone who might answer quickly, and with force. The Hogwarts grounds whipped by below, the Forbidden Forest looming large and the school growing swiftly ahead of them as they approached.

Things were desperate, so Salamander resorted to desperate measures. He bubbled a former auror who had been acting like a nutter for years. It was true desperation, that it had come to this.

She picked up almost instantly, babbling in a strained rush. "Hullo. Just realized I missed a button and three weeks ago I saw a dog and it looked at me and I thought of five good names for it but when I was seventeen a dog vommed in my bed and so all the names had to do with vomit and I'm very worried about things right now at the Tower and we're about to leave so you better make this quick. Sorry about that, it keeps happening, what is it?"

"Tonks," Salamander said, cupping the mirror with his hand and shouting to be heard over the rush of wind. "We need help!"

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

Everywhere, there were attacks. Everywhere, there were invaders. Salem, Paris, Oslo, Huangzhou, Moscow, Cyprus, Johannesburgh, Abuja, Dunedin. Vast crowds of Muggles attacked, or hooting Unseelie, or newly-free dark wizards in their dozens, or other... things. It was a masterpiece of coercion and coordination and carnage, as though some monstrous god were raining down the wrath of armies upon the world. And in many places, there was no help at all.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_Godric's Hollow_

_At the same time_

_The same day_

The alarm had been raised, and there was no one to come.

Ten monsters stood on a clear ridge above the village, looking down a steep slope at the thatched huts and low brick walls of the magical settlement. The basilisks had been hooded, swaying in place uncomfortably, and the terrasque stood as impassive as the rock from which they had been made. Four wizards stood behind the monsters, wands in hand. Their posture was tense and uncertain; they were not the masters, rather merely the attendants to beasts beyond their ability to truly control. The snakes and stones acted under the command of an unseen presence, and those dark wizards who'd accepted the cheerful offer of a chirpy young stranger now found themselves regretting that choice.

Still, they were free. That was more than could be said yesterday. And the power they had seen from their savior… no, they would do as they were told. They waited where they had been told to wait.

The defenders moved rapidly in the village below. Two of the patrol-wizards were escorting one last protesting inhabitant out of his home, a wizard who had refused to abandon his kneazles. The others were working under the direction of the aurors and the Hit Wizard squad to try to set up wards and traps - even simple barriers of stone, whatever they thought might slow down the earthbound enemy. There had been some discussion of attacking the fiends on the ridge before the situation deteriorated even further, but… well, reason could be flexible in the face of fear, even among the trained and brave. There were twoscore wizards to defend the ancient village, and they were afraid.

Should they have fled? Abandoned Godric's Hollow and its treasures and its history? Perhaps that would have been wise. But they did not go. They found mirrors, instead, that they might bear the basilisk's gaze from at least some distance, and they searched their memories for the spells that might work - some of them desperately trying to remember combat magic for the first time in decades - and they hoped for help.

No help came.

Goblins came instead.

The sound of their approach was like the grumbling of a great metal dragon. One hundred goblins marched up onto the ridge from the west, their armored boots slamming into the ground. They bore pennants fixed to their spears, bright with the colors of inscrutable traditions and clans. Many of them bore shields of silver or gold or bronze as well, and every shield was different and every shield was beautiful.

They did not march in unison, but they had discipline enough, for at a shouted signal, they came to an abrupt halt on the ridge's edge, twenty yards from the monsters. One of the dark wizards behind the beasts nodded solemnly, as if in greeting.

The goblins turned to regard the cowed defenders of Godric's Hollow.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_The country was as noisy as a bellowing bull _

_The God grew restless at their racket, _

_Enlil had to listen to their noise. _

_He addressed the great gods, _

"_The noise of mankind has become too much, _

_I am losing sleep over their racket. _

_Give the order that _surrupu_-disease shall break out."_

_The Epic of Gilgamesh_

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_Hogwarts_

"The Tower is open again - there was a takeover attempt," said Salamander, lowering his bubbler.

In unison, all five of the Returned turned to stare at him, lowering their wands. It was disturbing.

They stood in various places on the gentle slope in front of the castle's gate, where a staircase led up to the main doors and Great Hall. The path to Hogsmeade lay in front of them, time-smooth stones set in cement-hard earth, while the Forbidden Forest stretched out to their right, dark and dangerous. The Malfoy flying fortress, _The Declaration of Intent_, was just visible to the left, around the edge of the castle where the greenhouses were located.

"They're trying to sort things out, but the Goddess is fine," he said, crossly.

Simon glanced at Susie. She returned the glance with a frown, then turned back to Salamander. "We're going then, love."

He stiffened, staring at her. "Are you insane?"

"_Protego Totalum_," cast Tonks, her wand dabbing lightly at the air.

A few paces behind her, Simon was casting the same spell, and a few paces behind _him_, Charlevoix was putting her own wards up. A barrier against physicality was the best defense at the moment, layered to buy time. Twelve aurors and five fanatical criminals couldn't do much to stop that horde of Muggles, so they needed to delay them for as long as possible. Every minute that passed was another minute to allow reinforcements to arrive. With Time frozen - they'd gotten the warning, along with everyone else with a time-turner - this was the best strategy.

It was frustrating. On this day of insanity and emergency, the first responses had gone to the Ministry and to the Tower, and the second responses had gone… well, everywhere else possible, really. Now, even if they'd been able to contact the big hats who could countermand previous orders, there was no one left that they could even reach to help defend Hogwarts. It was _Hogwarts_ and all they could find were seventeen wizards and witches to protect it! Nguyễn had gone to enlist the faculty and even the _prefects _to help, but a swarm of a thousand Muggles was marching on the school, only minutes away.

And now the Returned wanted to go cling to the Goddess' bloody skirts, taking years of fighting experience and those golden gauntlet weapons of theirs with them.

"We can't spare anyone. We need _ten times_ as many. You're not going anywhere!" Salamander protested, bristling.

"We're going to help Hermione," Simon said, firmly.

"No, you're not," said Nguyễn, limping through the open front doors of the school, her voice fraught. "There are protocols for Imperius and Confundus infestation, and they're in effect. No one is going in or out of the Tower. The Terminus is following the letter of the rules, and no one is getting past the Receiving Room. And since you can't get in, you might as well stay here and help protect Ms. Granger's life."

This was a blatant lie, Salamander knew. The lockdown was over, and the Tower was probably the command center, like it had been during the One-Day War. But he said nothing, and didn't meet her eyes. They couldn't lose five battle-hardened combatants right now. Help would be coming, but there was fighting everywhere… they'd need every last wand.

To that end, there were nearly forty people following Nguyễn. Eight professors, Salamander saw with some relief. Competent help. None of them were from his own time, but he recognized most of them from one place or another, anyway. Slughorn, Sprout, Flitwick, Hooch, Sinistra, Vector, and Murkluk. He didn't recognize the fat one, but supposed he must be Professor Placela, the teacher they'd brought in to replace the proper Divination professor.

He was even glad to see the young adults who must be the prefects. Fifteen years old was essentially an adult in many ways, and they'd be able to at least keep themselves out of danger and cast some wards and jinxes. Fifth-years would have some experience with Care of Magical Creatures, after all, and that wasn't so different from handling an angry Muggle. From the back lines, they'd be fine.

But there were at least twenty students who couldn't be past their fourth year.

"We can't -" Salamander began, glaring at one of them, and then he paused. "Where is everyone else? Where're Moody and the Tower aurors?"

"This _is _everyone," said Nguyễn. "The Tower was almost captured and all the most important people in the world are huddled up in there, safe, but there's so much going on… they're going to send help as soon as they can." She sounded bitter. "The Headmistress and two professors are guarding the students and activating more of the castle's defenses, but this is it."

You couldn't Apparate into Hogwarts. Any aurors sent elsewhere - to the Ministry, to Antarctica, to wherever - would be slow to return.

The Returned had already gone back to their preparations, turning their eerie hollow-eyed stares back to their work. They were laying traps along the path from Hogsmeade: Transfigured caltrops and blades, and patches of slurry-soft earth. The little goblin Returned - Og? Urg? - was pulling little metal boxes from a pouch at his waist, fitting them into the golden gauntlets he wore on both hands (unlike the others, who only had one apiece).

"We can help, sir," said one young man, a good-looking boy with dark skin and sharp cheekbones. "I can help." He sounded as though he were terrified, but his jaw was gritted.

"You're going to _die_," Salamander said, harshly. "We saw what was out there and it's a bloody _army_." Best to be out with it. Best for them to break now, rather than later.

"They know that," said Professor Slughorn, cutting in. His voice had none of its mellow roundness. It was cool and tight. "We all know that. Auror Nguyễn told us what we were facing. And she told us that there was no one else."

The sound of metal ringing on stone came from within the doors of Hogwarts, and a line of animated armor and statues marched faultlessly out of the school. They needed no direction and could endure disenchantment. Old magic, not used in a very long time, and well beyond anyone now alive.

"We're here to fight, sir," said the boy again. "I know it's bigger than us, but we can fight. We know things. It's…" He reached for words, and again Salamander could see the fear in his eyes. The fear that the young man was swallowing back like a stone. After an instant, the boy seemed to find what he'd been trying to say. "…it's no crime to reach beyond your grasp if you can see where you're reaching."

A handful of other students gathered behind the boy, and Salamander had the feeling that he was seeing through a glass darkly: a narrow view of a complicated story.

"Bravo," whispered Professor Sinistra.

"Well said, boy," said Salamander, grudgingly. "Well, we need to hold here. We need to hold until help can arrive. You can help. What's your name?"

"Lawrence," said the young man, raising his chin.

Salamander heard a rumble behind him. The Muggles were close. Professors and aurors were already deploying, many of them mounting brooms. Others took command of the students, putting them in the rear and giving them strict instructions. He turned around, and felt his stomach tighten. He glanced back at Lawrence as the boy was led away by Professor Slughorn, squinting at the lining of the young man's robes. Green. "You're a Slytherin?"

"Yes, sir," said Lawrence, turning back to the auror, and in that moment the fear was gone from his voice and his face, and he looked as calm as the morning. "A _Silver _Slytherin."

"They're coming!" shouted Nguyễn, her broom rising rapidly into the air to Salamander's left. "Nicomedius, get on the line!"

Salamander forgot his surprise, and got himself sorted.

By the time the Muggles appeared down the slope, the battle order was set. Behind the first layers of wards and shields, statues and suits of armor were arrayed, armed with their own enchanted weapons or whatever could be Transfigured for them. Nguyễn and a team of broom-mounted aurors and professors were already in the air, flying towards the enemy; they'd attack from behind and try to do as much damage to disable and slow down the attackers as they could. The rest of the defenders were in groups of three, arrayed just before the zig-zagging stairs that led to the castle's main doors, except for the Returned, who'd formed their own broom-mounted, tight contingent off to one side, seemingly away from the main line of battle. The students were set on the staircase itself, in a position of partial cover where they could do some damage without being too vulnerable.

The fliers were out and off as soon as the Muggles were visible. The leading front of the unmagical was broken and staggered by the traps laid in their path. They weren't mindless, and took some care in their approach, but their determination made them seem more like ants than people: when a knot of Muggles tumbled into a hidden pit, caught or killed on the barbs within, their compatriots didn't even slow. The Muggles just kept coming. Some managed to shoot their guns here and there, where Extinguishing Charms from the fliers had left a gap, but even the rare impact fell on prepared shields.

As the Muggles drew in range, broken from their initial solid wave, wizards and witches began to lay flames and blades of crystal and other barriers in front. The Muggles pushed past and kept going, but their advance came at a cost of time and blood. Their injured were crushed underfoot. Scores died for every inch gained.

Salamander hurled curse after curse, and felt like he wanted to vomit. It was butchery, not combat.

At some hidden signal known only to themselves, the Returned swept away to the right, moving obliquely down the slope towards the Forbidden Forest. Most of the Muggles ignored them, even though the hollow-eyed fanatics continued to attack as they flew, lashing into the mass of the enemy with curses and conjurations. They opened up a second front, far enough away from the stairs to the main doors that the enemy was forced to either divide their attention or simply endure the attacks smashing into their flanks. Hammer and anvil.

The Muggles chose to ignore the attack, perhaps deciding that it was pointless to send part of their massed waves at the highly mobile Returned. Or perhaps the hidden wizard controlling them decided such. Or perhaps they'd simply gone mad, and were not capable of responding tactically. Whatever the cause, the Muggles just kept coming.

Before too long - indeed, after a sickeningly short time - they'd reached the first layer of wards. Ten hands began hammering on the unseen barriers, then twenty, then forty. The Hogwarts shields responded, sparking lighting and fire into their attackers, but it just wasn't enough. Though they died in droves, there were hundreds more to take their place. Within a few minutes, the pressure of the smoking bodies alone was enough to break the shields, collapsing from sheer blunt trauma, like a wave crashing over a wall. Blood sprayed and foamed as the first shield warped and wept crimson energy, and then failed.

Salamander gave up on flame, which was doing too little damage and had no deterrent effect. He softened the earth instead, so Muggles were swallowed into sudden holes, drowning in liquid soil and crushing their allies beneath them.

He watched as the Returned began activating their gauntlets, pouring geysers of swelling, sticky foam into the mass of Muggles. It was effective, but short-lived, as those trapped were pressed down into the foam, and others began avoiding it. Less effective were bursts of wind or quantities of some stinging gas; neither did more than temporarily slow forty or fifty of the enemy.

But there were just too many. That was all. No failure of strategy and no surprises. Just hundreds upon hundreds of Muggles, pouring forward in a thick mass. Thousands upon thousands. A city's worth of men and women. More than should have been possible. More than was _sane_.

As more shields broke, the animated statues and armor began to step forward and attack. They wielded whatever weapons they'd been provided: one suit of armor swung a greataxe mechanically to and fro through Muggle flesh, while a marble statue of Vindictus Viridian swung a club of granite. The aurors and professors supported them, casting flames and noxious smoke into the front lines, while the students picked off those Muggles who broke past with the Sleep Hex.

The Returned poured fire into the flanks of the Muggles. Astonishingly, it seemed like they were actually using Transfiguration: transforming earth or flesh into thick clouds of acid or burning chemicals. Despite everything, Salamander was shocked. That was madness - the actions of someone who didn't expect to live through the fight. But that was probably correct.

More than a thousand must have fallen already, Salamander thought numbly, looking at the heaped dead on the slope before him. He lashed arrows of steel through four Muggles, and then again through the ones behind them. He was beginning to feel burned-through and hollow, magically exhausted. They couldn't keep this up.

"_Nicomedius_," called a pleasant, silvery voice from his elbow. Salamander glanced to the side only long enough to see a corporeal patronus floating next to him. A cat. The Headmistress. "_Help is coming. Ten minutes._"

He lashed out with a wave of flame as one of the statues toppled over, smashed too often by a Muggle's iron bar. Two of the suits of animated armor were also down, and the Muggles had reached the second layer of wards and shields. Salamander spared another quick glance around him. Three of the fliers were down or dead. One of the professors had passed out from magical exhaustion. And he saw, to his surprise, that Lawrence was running away. He and a young woman had mounted brooms and were fleeing away from the fight and to the left, where the greenhouses and the looming shadow of _The Declaration of Intent _were visible.

_Slytherins_, he thought with disgust. Then he was fighting again, ignoring the black spots that were beginning to dance in front of his eyes.

"Hold the line!" he screamed. "Help is coming! Hold the line! Hold the line!"

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_Miss Watson your runaway nigger Jim is down here two mile below Pikesville and Mr. Phelps has got him and he will give him up for the reward if you send. - HUCK FINN_

_I felt good and all washed clean of sin for the first time I had ever felt so in my life, and I knowed I could pray now. But I didn't do it straight off, but laid the paper down and set there thinking - thinking how good it was all this happened so, and how near I come to being lost and going to hell. And went on thinking. And got to thinking over our trip down the river; and I see Jim before me, all the time; in the day, and in the night-time, sometimes moonlight, sometimes storms, and we a floating along, talking, and singing, and laughing. But somehow I couldn't seem to strike no places to harden me against him, but only the other kind. I'd see him standing my watch on top of his'n, stead of calling me, so I could go on sleeping; and see him how glad he was when I come back out of the fog; and when I come to him agin in the swamp, up there where the feud was; and such-like times; and would always call me honey, and pet me, and do everything he could think of for me, and how good he always was; and at last I struck the time I saved him by telling the men we had smallpox aboard, and he was so grateful, and said I was the best friend old Jim ever had in the world, and the only one he's got now; and then I happened to look around, and see that paper._

_It was a close place. I took it up, and held it in my hand. I was a trembling, because I'd got to decide, forever, betwixt two things, and I knowed it. I studied a minute, sort of holding my breath, and then says to myself:_

_"All right, then, I'll go to hell" - and tore it up._

Huckleberry Finn

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_Godric's Hollow_

_At the same time_

_The same day_

One goblin stepped out in front of their gathered army. He was small, but his bright-silver helmet had a proud tilt to it. When he leveled a spear at Godric's Hollow, making some gesture to his fellows, the blade was studded with a fat ruby, but the tip was sharp enough to shave the sun.

Basilisks hissed quietly, and the terrasque stood with obdurate stillness. Waiting for the signal to attack the wizards and consume their flesh and taste their blood. Waiting.

The goblin handed the spear to another, and raised the visor of his helmet. He had a sneer on his face as he stared down at the village. A shiver ran up the collective spine of the defenders of the Hollow. They looked at goblin silver and basilisk scale, and they knew despair.

The goblin removed a shining gorget from around his throat, and drew a wand from a simple leather holster at his side. He waved it in the air and touched it to his throat, saying something. Nothing happened, but sharp-eyed wizards divined he was attempting the Amplifying Charm.

It was a simple spell, but it took him ten or eleven tries to cast it properly. Still, considering it was the first time many of the wizards had ever seen a goblin cast a spell, it was a remarkable achievement. The goblin cleared his throat, and began to speak, his voice raw with emotion and thick with a Gobbledegook accent.

"I am Bilgurd the Marrowed. I speak for the Urgod Ur, work-leaders of the Great City of Ackle! I speak too for the Burgod Bur of Curd, the Malwirt Mal of Podhurt, the Salwirt Sal of the Freihammer Mons, the Curl of Shikoku, and the Curl of Waimate Wam, and the Curl of Singurd! I speak for the goblin nation!"

His voice rang out over Godric's Hollow, the assembled monsters, and the shaken defenders.

"We are goblins, and we do not forget!

"One thousand years ago, our cities were bright and proud with our will-work - the secret arts of transfiguration known only to us! Ackle was a city of marble and diamond, beautiful to behold. Wizards saw the will-work of the seven cities, and were jealous, and so men like Severus Hortensius took our wands by force! Goblins were banned from owning wands, and the seven cities became small and dark, and we do not forget!"

Bilgurd's voice was black with bitterness.

"Five hundred years ago, we were wandless, and we had to rely on our hammer-work and our wits! Yet still, wizardkind was jealous! Our goods were taken by force; Gringotts of London and Lurgods of Kochi were stolen from their rightful owners, and their gold heaped into wizarding coffers! We were robbed, and still today that gold sits in the vaults of wizards of noble blood, and we do not forget!"

Two of the dark wizards standing behind the basilisks and terrasque exchanged mocking smiles, their unease forgotten in their contempt.

"Three hundred years ago, wizards decided that their dominance and blood-thirst was not yet sated! Wizards - that people that held elves in thrall and murdered Muggles and hunted centaurs for sport - these wizards feared reprisal from their victims! And little wonder! And so wizards closed themselves away from Muggles and decreed that no goblin could ever again roam free on the land! Wizards dared to lock away entire peoples in a bondage of secrecy so complete that few even question its justice! We have been bound by the Statute for centuries, though our Things have no voice in the Confederation that gives it authority, and we do not forget!"

A silverwork goblin helmet shifted to turn to regard the monsters nearby, and the shiny mirror of its brow shone like a lesser moon.

"Since time began, the mudwater wizards of the world have stolen from us - taken our will from us and borne it away in pieces. The fruit of our forges and the light of our souls, put on display or waved around like trophies, and justified through _illegal _and _unconscionable_ contracts, as though any goblin could contract away his soul! Betrayal burns in every stolen suit of armor and every stolen spear, in every goblin-work mirror and every hoarded blade. Our hammer-work has been stolen, just as our power of will-work was stolen, and we do not forget!"

Bilgurd's shouts died down. He paused, then spoke again, quietly and with emotion.

"Goblins have honour. A new wizard spoke to us, of ancient name and great lore. The Archon, he called himself. The Archon Meldh. He knew that we had suffered, and spoke well to us. He spoke of wands, and banks, and prisons, and thefts. The Archon told us that he would give us back the knowledge of transfiguration that we once held, to do things that even the wizards could not do - to transfigure for days, not hours. The will-work of our ancient purpose. The Archon told us we would be free, too, and masters of our destiny and lives.

"Goblins have honour, and so we told him that we had allied ourselves with the Tower, and that he had treated us fairly. We told him that he had given us wands, and that we had been given a seat in the Wizengamot, and would soon have more, and that we were given all the healing arts in the Tower's power to give us. We told him that we did not doubt that wizards were changing, and that the world was changing, and that it could be different. We told him that, and he told us to weigh up all the wrongs and all the rights of our long history, and to ask ourselves: where did the balance lie?"

Bilgurd turned to face his own people now, and it was clear now, for the first time, that he had never been addressing the village of Godric's Hollow or the gathered monsters or their dark wizard companions. He was speaking to his own folk. And he spoke with passion, his voice ringing clear.

"Goblins have honour, and so we gathered in our Things, and we debated. We argued over the value of contract and good-will, and we argued over the very meaning of our lives. We argued over the inheritance we would leave to our children. We argued over what we might owe to our friends. And then we decided, and the seven cities took a vote."

The goblin's voice rose again, and now it was the roar of millenia.

"_Goblins have honour! Goblins of Ackle and Curd! Goblins of Podhurt and the Freihammer Mons! Goblins of Shikoku and Waimate Wam and Singurd! The Tower is threatened! His people are in danger! Wizards have put out their hand to us and -"_

One hundred goblins roared in unison, as bold as iron and fierce as brass, "**We do not forget!**"

They wheeled in place. They turned upon the monsters. They leveled their spears. And they charged.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_John Snow Center for Medicine and Tower School of Doubt (The Tower) _

_Now_

The Tower had dissolved into chaos when they found out that Hogwarts was under attack. In a manner entirely unbecoming to a room full of wise and experienced leaders, everyone broke away from what they were doing - sending messages abroad to keep information coming in; coordinating deployment of aurors and patrol-wizards and anyone else they could find; working to find a pattern behind it all - and began shouting. It became even worse when _three different wizards_ cast the Amplifying Charm and tried to cut through the chaos with simultaneous shouts of "Enough!"

It only stopped when Hermione Granger stomped her foot into the stone underfoot as hard as she could, smashing into it with a cracking boom.

"Quiet, please," she said. She turned to Harry. "I'm taking everyone who can hold a wand out there, now."

"Not everyone," said Harry. "Luna," he said, turning to Lovegood, who somehow still managed to look vague and aloof, "I need you to get Basil and Percy's brother. I have a job for the three of you… an incredibly important one." He didn't wait for a reply, moving to jab his finger at ten people in turn. "All of you - get to the Records Room! Each of you grab two drawers and pull them free. The incantation to release them is 'Fuzzy-wuzzy was a seventeen Manila.' Get them out of the Tower, somewhere safe - the RCP."

Harry turned to two aurors, seemingly at random. "You two. We're evacuating. Your job is to tell me when everyone is clear."

The room was silent. Everyone was staring, even those who'd been assigned a task. Alastor Moody had his eyes clenched, and he was leaning on the meeting room table. Hermione found her eyes filling with tears.

"Harry, what are you -" began Madame Bones.

"We're evacuating. Set up what we need in the Great Hall. Everyone who can - and all the aurors we have - go and fight. There's no more reason to stay. I'm bringing the Tower down. Then I need to consult with Hermione about something I'm going to do," said Harry, and his voice was as icy as the determination in his green eyes.

"And then," he added, as people gaped at him, "I'm going to the library. Now _move!_"

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_Outside_

Salamander had seen Nguyễn die. She'd simply fallen off of her broom. He didn't know why. Maybe she'd passed out, or maybe something had hit her. But he'd watched her wobble in her seat mid-flight and fall, dropping in amongst the Muggles. She was dead.

Some of the students had fainted. Others were levitating professors or aurors up the stairs - others, too tired even to do that, were just dragging the fallen, physically.

Every lost combatant was a disaster.

There was only one layer of wards left. Salamander stood behind it, flanked by twenty others. Three fliers were left, reduced to weak curses and hexes. Everyone did what they could for as long as they could. They all fought as though it were the end of the world. Perhaps it was.

"_Somnium! Somnium! Inflagrate! Phlogisticate! Phlogisticate!"_

"_Phlogisticate! Somnium! Ventus! Ventus! Prismatis!"_

"_Stupefy! Stupefy! Stupefy! Stupefy!"_

"_Somnium! Somnium! Prismatis!"_

They fell back. They were a tight knot of magic at the base of the stairs. Muggles smashed their weapons against Prismatic Shields. Salamander sustained his with his will. He had no magic left. He fed his spell with his life.

There was a shadow, he thought dully, as a Muggle brought a sledgehammer down on his shield. A shadow.

_The Declaration of Intent _was aloft, rising slowly from where it had rested near the greenhouses and floating towards them.

Another Muggle was beating on his shield with a pipe. It was an old man, Salamander saw. Thin-faced. Dressed in torn pants, with no shirt over his shrunken chest. Salamander blew him apart with a shower of gore. Thousands of Muggles dead. Always more.

Down the slope, Salamander watched the Returned charge. He'd seen them spend all of the charges from their gauntlets and cast spell after spell into the endless flow of Muggles. Now he supposed their magic was gone.

They swept into the side of the crowd of Muggles like a knife, leaning down from their brooms to smash their gauntlets into the heads of their targets. Then they pulled up - one broom short, Salamander couldn't see who. They flew in a tight circle, then did it again. And again.

An auror's shield gave. She died a moment later as three Muggles buried knives into her chest and stomach.

Salamander knew he should clear some space to move back, to maneuver.

If he dropped his shield, he wouldn't be able to cast it again.

He stayed.

He held on.

_The Declaration of Intent _was flying over them now, a squat fortress of stone gently soaring overhead.

_Oh_, Salamander thought, as his vision went black. _That's where the boy went_.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

When _The Declaration of Intent_ came crushing down on the entry stairs of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, it pressed into the rock, sending a shudder through the earth. It rose and fell again, and then again. Three times it smashed itself into the stairs before it ruptured, explosively.

People died. Nicomedius Salamander was among them. So too were many, many innocent people, kidnapped and enslaved and whisked far away, to die in a war beyond their understanding.

So too were Lawrence Bradwian and Annabeth Dankesang.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

Hogwarts endured.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

The Unseelie arrived first, borne by flaming chariots. They found interest in the ruined bodies that littered Hogsmeade, strewn here and there, battered into meat. The horror-gaunts gave their strange cry of amusement, driving lejis before them, as they turned towards the castle of Hogwarts.

Dark witches and wizards followed, and almost all of them kept a distance born of stark terror from the Unseelie. Only two moved without fear ahead of their fearful compatriots. One trotted along with mincing step of madness. The other trudged with the hateful step of despair. Bellatrix Black and Limpel Tineagar made an odd pairing.

Perenelle du Marais brought basilisks and terrasque with her. She did not bother to hood the great serpents, paying their gaze no mind. The full-figured witch in her green dress walked among them towards the killing fields, and seemed lost in her own thoughts.

One individual came last, unheralded and unarmed, clad only in plain robes of grey, bringing no one and nothing with them.

From everywhere, the armies came to Hogwarts.


	55. Antepenultimate

_Receiving Room, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

_Now_

This was a defining moment. Gregor Nimue knew that. Everyone was leaning on him to break protocol, and he was standing fast.

It was a shining moment, and it was a long time coming.

Considering his experience and skill, he should have been Terminus of the Receiving Room a long time ago. He had twice the lore and three times the brains of any other Tower Auror, and it was practically a crime that he'd been sidelined for so long. He'd spent _years_ chafing under the command of inferiors, stuck on chizpurfle duty or some other nonsense - all because he'd had the bad luck to be on the Azkaban rotation on the night that veela-giant crossbreed dropped out of the sky on a phoenix and knocked the place flat. An entire detail of good and experienced aurors were dropped down to sentinel duty the very next week, and Gregor had been taking orders from idiots ever since.

And what was even better, the very week he was finally back in a decent posting - Terminus, a job with some real heft - was one more in a series of crazy weeks. The blastbombings in Diagon and Tidewater, the start of the Treaty of Independence, an attack by some worthless students with a hundred doxies, the One-Day War, the attack by Bellatrix Black, and now some sort of takeover attempt at the same time that everywhere else in the world was going to pot. Too many people had been burnt out or hurt or both, and so good old Gregor's career was finally _finally_ heading back to the top.

There were protocols for things like this, for powerful wizards who might manage to evade security and put people under their control, and Gregor followed them to the _letter_. As soon as McGonagall sent word about a message she'd received, he'd given the signal. They'd rolled the shield and locked down the Tower, and no power on the planet could make him open it until he was satisfied that the Tower hadn't been compromised. That was the rule. That was his role. The Terminus was the first and last guard against attack - from _either _side of the Tower's golden doorway.

Injured wizards, witches, and Squibs arrived and were sent to nearby chambers in Hogwarts, stabilized as well as could be done by a skeleton crew of the less-skilled aurors. Gregor kept his best stationed near him - and that necessity became even more apparent when entire squads of foreign Hit Wizards and auror teams arrived. Some of the most famous battle wizards and duelists in the world appeared on the summons of the Headmistress of Hogwarts and the Tower and some American muckitymuck. The Boston Brahmins didn't even arrive stunned; they spun into existence fully awake and aware, which meant that they'd used an _illegal Tower portkey_ that didn't have the security enchantments. Gregor'd need to report that - earn another point in his favor.

As the story became clear, he'd let out messages and he'd let in a handful of runners and representatives, but still: no one left. A strange and powerful wizard had tried to take over and failed… fine, a good story, but would it be any different if a strange and powerful wizard had tried to take over and _succeeded_? Lockdown remained in place.

Even when he heard that the Ministry itself was under attack, and that the dregs of the aurors who'd been sitting idle in Hogsmeade or some other Knut-ante place had spotted a crowd of Muggles, Gregor knew better. He did his job. Americans, Russians, Koreans, and seemingly a thousand angry British including all the most powerful people he knew were all putting pressure on him, and he did his job.

It was a shining moment, and it was a long time coming.

"Lift the lockdown, Nimue!" shouted Auror Hedley Kwannon, "It's been nearly thirty minutes! Don't you know what's _happening_ out there?"

"Don't _you _know what protocol is, Kwannon?" snapped back Gregor. He was off to the side of the door, out of its line of sight, but he knew she must be fuming. One more bit of consolation: knowing one of the Tower's pets was being treated like everyone else for a change. He'd already heard that another one of them, that flinty Kraeme woman, had been badly injured.

If he found out that Pirrip had fallen off his broom and broken his neck while mooning after the Diggory brat-in-charge, then Gregor's day would be complete.

"You don't have to let them out, but you're going to let us in," rumbled the biggest of the three Chinese wizards who'd been pestering Gregor for the last twenty minutes. He didn't approach too closely - not with fifty Tower Aurors on alert, wands ready for conflict (from either direction).

_And if this whole thing were a ploy and it was you lot behind it, wouldn't that just what you'd bloody want? _Gregor thought. _Although all things considered, it's still most likely that Mad-Eye is the one behind the whole thing, somehow._ He smiled a mocking smile right at the Chinese Hit Wizard, although all he said was a courteous, "No, sir. Sorry."

Two of the Tower Aurors exchanged an uneasy glance, but didn't lower their wands. Gregor noticed, and noted who it was. Unreliable.

"You have every confirmation code and you have Patronus verification from five of us," shouted Kwannon. "That _is _the protocol!"

"I still have discretion," called back Gregor, "and I haven't seen anything th-"

"No. That's enough now, Nimue," said a new voice, with a tone of command that was leather-tough. Madame Bones. His former leader in the DMLE, before she leapt up four or five rungs to Supreme Mugwump and Chief Warlock. "If the Tower has been compromised somehow, then it's past proof and past solution. You'll end the lockdown right now. Innocent people are dying."

Gregor considered. _She's right. And I've made my name. If this was a Mad-Eye test, then I've made my reputation. And if not… well, this will probably still be good for me._

"Fine," he said. And before he'd even said a word more, tense aurors were lowering their wands with a sigh. The sharper ones were in immediate, rapid motion: heading to the bunched-up crowd sorting itself into a queue to get through the narrow Tower entrance, or going the opposite way to the rest of Hogwarts.

Gregor turned to one of the aurors in charge of scanning. "We'll need to sort out who is available for assistance outside…"

But his voice trailed off as he watched a ripple shift through the witches and wizards around the Tower entrance. They cleared a path.

Hermione Granger strode through the path, out of the Tower. Her step was brisk and her face was tight. She had her wand out - and her other hand looked oddly pinkish, as though it had been sunburnt.

This was a shining moment, Gregor knew. The same person who'd broken his career would now reward him for keeping to the rules at the moment when it had been the most difficult, and when there'd been every reason to give in.

He stepped forward to meet her. "Madame Granger, I hope you -"

The Goddess didn't even slow down. She walked forward like he wasn't there, and her shoulder swept Gregor aside like a curtain of iron as he tried to hastily get out of her way. He staggered backwards, met an obstacle behind one heel, and lost his balance. He landed on his rear, awkwardly.

No one took much notice - too many things going on - except for the few people near him (including the bass-voiced Chinese auror, who had stuck a foot out behind Gregor).

He watched the Goddess sweep through the room and out, and then she was gone, two witches right on her heels and dozens of aurors and others rushing in their wake, following her with grim faces. Almost before she'd vanished from the room, though, there came someone else - the only person, perhaps, who could draw even more attention than Hermione Granger.

"Cedric, take anyone not vital who can cast a Patronus," said Harry Potter, walking briskly up to the Tower entrance. He was wearing simple garments - trousers and a vest beneath plain robes. "Communications are now the most important thing you can do. We can bring reinforcements here quickly with Safety Sticks, but moving them after that is harder, so -"

"So we need to know exactly what threats are where, and now," finished the Chief Auror and Head of the DMLE, walking alongside and just behind the Tower.

Potter nodded, sharply, and then a look of uncertainty flashed over his face. His stride broke, and he halted. He was standing inside the golden oval of the Tower, looking out at the Receiving Room.

Gregor stood up and turned to the side, trying to follow the Tower's gaze. He glanced around the room. Nothing unusual now but a relatively plain stone room with the usual decorations - the tables of Dark Detectors, the shelves of chizpurfles, the few pieces of other furniture. It was crowded with combat-ready wizards, and injured people were arriving at a steady rate, but there were no apparent threats. There didn't seem to be any reason for the Tower to hesitate… was he nervous about any remaining danger? That didn't seem possible, considering how often Potter had been in serious peril. Just a couple of months ago, he'd nearly been blown up in Diagon, and just today there'd been an attempt to cast some sort of Imperius Curse on him. _He is just a child, after all. A child who's taken charge of the world, but a child. With a stupid haircut, too._

Madame Bones stepped up from somewhere behind Potter. She said something too soft to hear, and then put a hand on his back and gave him a gentle but firm push forward. The Tower stepped forward and out of his eponymous facility, and took a deep breath. He closed his eyes. He looked pale.

Then the moment passed, and Potter was turning to yet another person walking with him - a blonde-haired witch - and telling her to get everything ready, and to remember everything he'd said.

Nimue found himself pushed to the side by several aurors, and then again by a scornful blonde wizard - was that _Draco Malfoy?_

"You're the one who was Terminus and kept us here? Well done, you fool," sneered Malfoy. He didn't stop, but walked on.

Things weren't supposed to go this way. This wasn't _fair_.

"Good going -" "- you complete bollocks," said a pair of red-haired Hit Wizards with bizarre cheer as they walked by.

"I followed protocol!" Gregor protested. "I just did what I was supposed to do!"

"You did the right thing, Nimue," Bones said, staring at him. Her voice was cool. "What an odd time to begin such behavior." Then she turned away from him, too, looking at another auror who'd emerged from the Tower behind her. "Madagascar, you're in charge here. Get everyone moving. Get everyone you can outside, to help Granger."

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

Harry stepped to one side of the Mirror, which sat as impossibly solid as ever, embedded in the masonry of Hogwarts as though it were a piece of interior decoration: a fancy accessory to the castle, rather than the most potent magical device known to still exist.

The Cup of Midnight might have been stronger, once. They hadn't been able to find much information about that ancient device, which came to them now only in scant shards, but Hopkirk's best guess was that the Cup had been the method by which the Interdict was enacted. Around the same time, the Cup was broken and Merlin lost his life and his time. Occam's Razor suggested that all three events were perhaps related, although contradictory legends told many different stories.

There was a time when Harry couldn't have imagined making a decision like that… a decision on behalf of humanity. On some level, of course, every little decision tasted of eternity. But to consciously choose a path for the future of mankind, to make a gamble in the name of human intelligence… well, that had been the fate of a precious few.

And now Harry was going to join them.

The scramble he'd inspired with his order to evacuate the Tower had caused something like a panic, especially when added to the chaos of the attacks and the tension of the lockdown. Healers and officials and researchers and diplomats and friends first tried to enter the Tower, only to find themselves turned back: Moody stood just inside, where the two main corridors split off, and roared orders. There were suddenly too few aurors, where only minutes ago there had been far too many, but those remaining worked to clear out the entire facility. The Records Room was emptied, desperate researchers were permitted a single trip to retrieve anything they needed from the departments, and every last straggler was forced out.

At least one researcher fought back, recklessly, after his request to return and retrieve his personal Pensieve was denied. He was stunned and removed. But while there was a great deal of complaining and even some tears, most accepted the warnings without such a drastic reaction.

_Probably a lot of them don't really believe that anything is going to happen to the Tower - they expect to be able to come back after the alarm dies down. They don't know that it's going to… well, I don't even know what will happen to it. _Harry stared at the Mirror. It stood immobile: a fixed point of supernal obdurance. If it were possible to truly conceptualize the supermassive black hole at the center of the galaxy, this is what he imagined it would be like: potent beyond reckoning and more solid than existence. Not that he'd ever had occasion to see a black hole. His mouth twisted in a wry smile.

Harry looked at the golden circle of the Mirror.

He had to do this.

He had to make himself do this.

Kwannon kept most people from bothering him with their urgent pleas for assistance or exceptions. She blocked their path physically - or with wards when necessary - to keep his corner of the Receiving Room empty, off to the side of the Tower entrance. He was startled, then, when he felt a hand tug on his sleeve. He turned to find Auror Pirrip, looking sweaty but grinning broadly. He glanced over Pip's shoulder at Kwannon, but she was smiling, too.

"Yes?" Harry asked.

"Mr. Potter! You're never going to believe… the goblins, sir!"

Harry felt a sick feeling in his gut. He knew what this was about, and celebrations were not in order.

_Every round for countless rounds, wizards defected instead of cooperating. What did we expect would happen?_

"Let me guess: they attacked, but we won." He sighed, and turned away, to stare at the Mirror again. "It's been building for weeks, now. Well, no, it's been building for years. And the frustrating thing is that it's impossible to even blame them, or feel happy about winning. It doesn't change anything, and it actually makes things _worse_ in a lot of ways. I don't think moral culpability is heritable, but centuries of structural inequality and outright oppression can't be ignored for -"

"Sir!" interrupted Pip, putting a hand on Harry's arm again, his urgency overriding his patience and respect. "They're fighting with us - fighting for us! Everywhere! They've saved the Cypriot Hold and Beauxbatons. They've saved _Godric's Hollow!_"

_That's… my god, that's better than we deserve. That's better than any of us deserve._

It was amazing. It was a touch of grace. It was a shining moment.

Harry felt his eyes fill with tears, and a smile spread helplessly across his face.

"Everything is going to hell, Mr. Potter," said Pip, smiling back, "but we're not alone."

"Sir!" said Kwannon, behind Pip, one arm raised to stop a panic-faced auror. "They need you! The Goddess is out there, but…"

Things must be bad and getting worse. And it was time. The Receiving Room was almost empty, except for healers. Almost everyone who could fight was gone, and everyone else was trying to secure themselves away with the students - down in the dungeons, he supposed.

Moody and a last team of aurors emerged, floating two stunned stragglers along in their wake. Moody gave Harry a heavy nod, his face sadder than Harry had seen it since Albus Dumbledore had been lost beyond time.

"Yes," said Harry to Kwannon. He turned back to the Mirror. And now he felt ready. "I can do this. But then we're going to the library, not outside. Let Hermione do her thing - I'll do mine."

He stepped in front of the entrance to the Tower - the pocket world of his creation. The world of his volition. He felt for his wand.

"_Muffliato,_" he cast.

"Noitilov," he said. And the surface of the Mirror changed, and just like that, the John Snow Center for Medicine and the Tower School of Doubt was gone.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_What a waste_, Hermione thought, grimly. She pulled her broom up and away from the entrance to the castle. _What a heroic waste._

The defenders could have done any number of things differently, if they'd been willing to rethink their situation or defy convention. They'd fought like they'd always fought: with incredible bravery but limited creativity.

The castle fell away behind her as she flew upwards, set on the steep hill that edged upon the waters of the Black Lake. The staircase down the hill was gone, bitten away halfway down by the teeth of rubble that were strewn at the bottom. The Hogwarts grounds, normally a gentle rise of grass from the main gates from Hogsmeade all the way to the castle, were a torn mass of detritus and the dead, still intermingled with the scrambling mass of people who were pouring in from Hogsmeade in an endless stream. There were thousands, perhaps tens of thousands. Perhaps more. She'd heard that a million people could fit within Tiananmen Square in Beijing, and tried to estimate based on that. Considering all the chaos and the impassable areas… how many people was she looking at?

She picked a portion of ground and did a quick Fermi estimate, counting the living and dead on that portion and extrapolating to the whole field.

Ninety thousand.

There was a dull thump from far below, and a line of silver smoke arrowed through the air. Hermione watched as it arced gently downward, and hit the wrought-iron apex atop the Hufflepuff greenhouse. The missile exploded. It actually did little damage, except for a multitude of broken glass. But she could see rifles and numerous simpler weapons among the crowd, too.

_Well,_ and she couldn't believe she was thinking this and very carefully reminded herself of the moral equivalencies and the slippery slope of the thought but even so she still couldn't help but think, _they are just Muggles, after all._

Hermione dipped her broom sharply, dropping dangerously quickly to the ground. She pulled up just short of the gathering aurors. Every moment, more were arriving from outside. She took a moment to assess who was there and what their known capabilities were. A formidable force, even against an army like this. And if they fought smartly, they could win this.

The Returned were there. Simon was missing. In turn, Hermione met the eyes of Urg, Charlevoix, Esther, Nikitas, Tonks, Susie, and Hyori. She didn't say anything, and neither did they. There was nothing that needed to be said.

"Brahmins and Rakshasa," she said, firmly, jabbing her finger at the elite American and Russian auror squads. "You're in the air. I want to know about everything that happens. Stay high. You're not fighting, you're keeping yourself protected. If you seen an opportunity, you tell the Jīngluò or the Three Treasures." She indicated the Chinese and Korean squads. "They're going to be working in teams, protecting each other and attacking. You'll be transfiguring things I'll tell you - dangerous things. Things you're never supposed to transfigure. But you're going to do it, because it's the only way to stay alive… and the only way to save countless other lives."

Hermione waited a moment, anticipating arguments or demands about her authority. But there were none - just confident nods and cool determination. They knew of the Goddess. They knew the reputation of the Tower.

She turned to the British forces. "Shichinin and Omega, you've the most experience fighting Muggles. Defend this ground. Half of you will be on the battlements… this is a castle, use the cover. I have more ideas - things we can do to stop this. Draco Malfoy and Alastor Moody will join you when they arrive."

Hermione wheeled her broom around and pointed at the horde below. "Thousands of people have already died, including dozens of our own. But what finally worked was a physical barrier. Use that. Hold them off, stay on the defensive. The Muggle news is full of these disappearances - we don't know how many we're facing. So your job is just to hold back the tide and keep the school safe. If you have to, retreat inside. Stay alive."

She gestured at the Returned, and they began mounting brooms.

Neville Longbottom called out to her as they rose. "And you… you're going after the source?"

"Yes," she said. "Stay alive."

And then she was flying, the Returned by her side.


	56. Penultimate

Hermione had a moment to think as she and the Returned climbed through the air away from Hogwarts, zipping over the school grounds towards Hogsmeade. It was a short distance - a few minutes' flight - but she took the opportunity afforded her to think beyond the immediate tactical situation. Strategy, not only the demands of the moment, needed to dictate her movements. And right now, she didn't have any sort of larger strategy.

_How could I? How do you fight an enemy that breaks all the rules of the game? _Hermione thought to herself. The Three were attacking - _Well, now it must be the Two, really_, she thought, thinking about the unremarkable white stone that was sitting inside of a small, mundane iron box in the Headmistress' coat pocket. But Meldh had wrought havoc and almost brought the entire world under his control with _one spell_… It had taken an ancient artifact and years of planning to create a safeguard against that kind of attack, and even then it might have failed if things had gone a little differently. At that last moment, if Meldh had the wits or resources to draw up another spell from his ages of lore, there was literally no predicting what he might have been able to do to her or Harry - even with his throat missing.

The old books were full of fantastical feats and mighty deeds, and attempting to sort out the historical from the apocryphal was more a work of literary criticism than historical research. "Lord Foul" was said to have commanded dementors and basilisks and terresque, but was that a real spell of command that the Three might deploy, or simply a legend that the writer thought was appropriate for a infamous dark wizard?

Normally Hermione would be able to rule some things out - a secret spell from the past that allowed its caster to stop someone's heart without the possibility of dodging or warding, for example. If such a spell had existed, it would have made the one who invented it into an unstoppable force. History would look different.

But according to Harry, Meldh had implied that the Three had been in hidden control of events for generations, which meant that they might actually _be_ an unstoppable force.

"They're using all the powers of the old world," Harry had said, "everything that's always worked for villains like them in the days gone by. But we're going to use all the powers of our new world to match them, and we're going to beat them."

But unless they had some brilliant ideas very soon, she couldn't see how.

Hermione heard a dull popping sound from far below among the trudging mass of mind-controlled Muggles - no, _people _\- and pulled up on her broom. The Returned matched her, and they rose higher yet. They were already too high to be under real threat from rifle fire, even if they hadn't been warded, but there was no point in risking it. She glanced around her, making sure everyone was with her and uninjured. Hyori and Esther rode on either side of her. Charlevoix and Urg followed them, staggered at different altitudes, while Susie, Tonks, Nikitas, and Jessie were spread out in a third, staggered row. Simon's absence was conspicuous.

_Simon. My solid rock. Sweet, solid Simon. Gone now. _Hermione wished she could have been there - to save him, to help him, even just to hold his hand.

He'd been the first one she'd saved.

_It was still been raining when Hermione began pulling open the cell doors. The walls of Azkaban had been battered, and a great jagged fissure had split one of the three sides to the prison; Granville had carried her through and they had landed within, and for the first time in centuries, the broken halls of Azkaban felt the cleansing cool of the rain._

_Most of the cells were empty. Most of the prisoners were gone, transferred to the new Howard Prison or simply released. But there were still people here._

_One door was stuck. Hermione forced her fingers around its edge, the stone cracking loudly through the patter of rain, and wrenched the door open. Another empty cell - no, there was someone here._

_She stepped into the cell, and let gentle orange flame illuminate it. Granville made a small sound, shifting in position on her shoulder. It was a sound of remorse or admonition._

_The person was lying on their side, staring up at the ceiling. Rotting alive, with black leprous streaks of infection spreading from great mottled sores, entwined maladies spread across a withered chest. As warm light touched the person's face, they slowly closed their eyes and turned towards her. What did they see when they looked at her - just a soaked teenager with a phoenix and a scared look on her face? Who did they think she was?_

_She reached out a reassuring hand to the person as she approached._

"_My name is Hermione Granger. I'm here to help you."_

And now he was gone. Brave Simon.

Her attention snapped back to the present as they passed the gates to Hogsmeade, and she saw new enemies. Not just the endless flood of weapon-wielding Muggles, but two other groups.

A large wedge of witches and wizards in robes was slowly, almost casually, making their way through the mass. They walked in good order right along the stone-paved path from Hogsmeade, as though they were merely a group of forty students returning from a trip to Honeydukes. The Muggles parted before them as though directed by an invisible force. _Something to do with the spell controlling the Muggles, or something about the orders they'd been given, or… maybe these are involved in the control or can give directions?_

Hermione felt cold run up her back as she recognized - even from this height - some of the enemy. Councilor Limpel Tineagar. Bellatrix Black, with one eye and one arm (her artificial arm, the Gripmain, presumably still lay in the vaults of the Department of Mysteries). Some of the strangers wore markings on their robes that Hermione recognized as the sigils of Grindelwald's death squads, the Hírnökei; she could see the red sword of the Záh Kardja and the red hand of the Veres Kezek. No Grindelwald himself - a small mercy in this tide of nightmares.

And yet even this was not the end, for behind this infantry of dark wizards was a cavalry of monsters.

She recognized the basilisks. The ten enormous serpents were following a lone witch in a green dress, seeming to mimic her movements. As she walked, they swayed to match the swing of her hips, and their gaze was clearly fixed on her back to the exclusion of all else. The basilisks were at least fifty feet long, perhaps more; the portion of their serpentine bodies that they held upright was as tall as a single-storey Muggle home.

Behind the basilisks was another mass of creatures - terrifying things that could only be terresque. They had broad shells on their backs, rough as chipped stone, and moved on six stubby legs with shiny red scales. They were huge - ten feet high, with round black heads as large as a lion's, and great mouths that smoked with some sort of vapour. As they lumbered along, they resembled nothing so much as a mad cross between a tank and a turtle and a parade float.

As both groups came into view and as soon as she grasped what she was seeing, Hermione immediately reacted. They couldn't handle this - not with so few people. She yanked her broom to one side as sharply as she dared, almost colliding with Hyori before the Returned could match her change of heading. Should they be trying to transfigure protective goggles or something, in case the basilisks' stare reached them at this distance? No, no time, and they needed free wands. The important thing was to get back out of sight and warn everyone else. Luna already had one task, but now Hermione had something else for her, too.

The witches and wizards weren't mounted - strange, but in keeping with their lack of hurry in a time of war - and so there was a chance that Hermione and her people might get away before any conflict could begin. She heard a distant shout from below as they wheeled about, but the enemy wouldn't manage more than one or two attacks before the Returned were clear. _My God… in addition to a seemingly endless horde of Muggles, we'll also be fighting the denizens of Howard and Nurmengard?_

A bolt of green light streaked past, veering wide. It was joined by another, placed more accurately and blistering through the air between Esther and Charlevoix. A thick gust of steam blew into the group almost at the same time, but it was without force at this distance, and the Returned were putting distance between them and the enemy with every moment.

There was no point in engaging, but a thought did occur to Hermione - obvious, in retrospect. She slackened her pace just slightly, and brought her wand to her throat. "_Sonorus_," she cast, and then bellowed at the top of her lungs, "_Egeustimentis Ba_!"

There was an immediate response below, as four or five of the witches and wizards began firing on each other. A fireball erupted among the group, cast by one of its number. Hermione grinned, and leaned further into her broom, urging more speed. They still needed to prepare for the monsters.

An odd hooting sound startled her. It sounded like a giant owl - and it seemed far too close, as though it somehow cut through the rushing wind. Hermione jerked her head to the side and looked for the source, but saw nothing. She could see Urg looking puzzled, and knew she hadn't been the only one who heard it.

Then Susie fell out of the sky, tumbling off her broom, slapping at something that was wrapped around her head. Hermione only caught a glimpse of it as Susie tumbled away - a naked thing of skin and teeth, vibrating violently.

And then Hermione was diving after her, her broom vertical, arm stretched out and golden gauntlet reaching. She could hear Susie screaming - shrieking at the top of her voice, louder than a person should be able to scream, agony tearing out of her.

_Shouldn't do this no time stupid stupid_, she thought, in a confused jumble that didn't shake her from her course in the slightest.

Hermione _strained_ forward, trying to force herself to go faster, to dive more quickly, to reach farther. Susie tumbled away in a tangle of robes and blood, beating at the thing on her face and chest until it fell away, tossed in the wind. The ground rose towards Hermione and Susie, surging up to meet them as they fell.

She reached and _reached_ and

Got her.

As her hand clamped down on Susie's ankle, Hermione kicked herself savagely back, hauling on the front of her broom so fiercely that she felt the wood strain and crack dangerously in her grip. She pulled up into a swoop, the bottom of the arc dipping within arm's reach of a crowd of threatening Muggles, dragging them both back up into the sky without letting go of a drop of speed. The violent motion wrenched Susie badly, and Hermione felt something in the witch's leg give - the hip or knee - but Hermione had her, thank God thank God, she had her.

They rocketed forward, Hermione leaning forward and holding the broom steady with her left hand. With the other, she pulled Susie up, lifting the witch's lower body over the front of the broom.

But Susie was dead.

Her face and chest were a mess of bloody meat, ground and torn as though by some monstrous industrial machine. Her mouth was agape - a lifeless black wound in the shredded flesh.

Hermione's eyes burned with the wind and her rage, and she clenched her jaw. She leaned forward, though, gripping Susie in place. Stay focused. Susie could still be saved.

The rest of the Returned joined her moments later, swooping down to fall in line with her.

Hermione heard more hooting.

_No no no what _is _that?!_

Esther pulled even with Hermione, and leaned over. She grabbed one of Susie's arms, pulling on the witch. Hermione understood what she wanted, and helped, seizing the back of Susie's robes and lifting the witch from one broom onto the other, fighting with the other hand to keep their flight steady.

There was another hooting sound, and something collided with Esther, her broom, and Susie. The two witches were gone, as immediately as if they'd been struck from the sky by lightning.

Hermione wheeled in her seat, and saw… _something_. Not a physical thing so much as a flow of sensations. It was something like the use of wandless magic: the purposeful movement of particular ideas. But this was somehow visible, and moving, and malevolent. A collection of sensations, divorced from sanity and sense.

_Large eyes. Black and oily. Wet._

_White skin. Flaky, run through with spidering cracks. Ragged in places, as gnawed._

_Long, thin limbs. Sparse flesh. Lumpy joint._

_Mouth. Smile._

_Smile._

And there were more, leaping up around them. Hooting with mirth. They were _so fast_; Hermione was on a broom at top speed and they were _leaping at her_.

Without word or order or request, Hyori and Charlevoix broke away from the Hermione and the rest of the Returned. Hermione twisted to see once more, and they flew around and back, in a circle back to where Esther and Susie had fallen. Their curses flew as quickly as they could cast them, but the creatures were too quick and too inchoate. Even the spells that seemed to hit had no effect. They leapt at Hyori and Charlevoix, hooting, and the pair vanished, plucked out of the air.

Hermione turned back around, gritting her teeth again, and her hands tightened on her broom. She fought to stay calm - fought to stay under control.

Esther and Charlevoix. The French witch had once been nearly catatonic, breaking into screams every time she was separated from Hermione. Esther had been very quiet, too, for a time; injured deep within herself by betrayal and her own anger. But the two had found each other during this past year in some new way - Hermione hadn't pried. They were even leaving Powis - they'd just recently gotten a cottage in Godric's Hollow.

Hyori. An enigma, even to Hermione. Laconic and deadly serious, imprisoned for murder, but with some hidden depth that Hermione had never understood. She'd made a game of things in subtle ways, and her sharp eyes had always hinted at thoughts the witch had never revealed.

Susie. Lascivious and sarcastic, delighting in affecting cockney, alluding to a sexuality she used like armor. Like all of the Returned, she'd left some piece of herself with the dementors, but she was bravest of them all in trying to reclaim it.

Hermione, Tonks, Urg, Nikitas, and Jessie flew on, back to Hogwarts and back to help.

Not that Hermione could imagine what help would suffice. What could anyone do in this situation? What weapons did they have that would work?

And again: what did these damned monsters even _want_?

This didn't make _any sense_! Why was the enemy entering through Hogsmeade, and not right outside the castle - or for that matter, why not right _inside_ the castle? They didn't know the limits of the spell, but Bellatrix had used it to simply appear within Hogwarts, so why not do that again?

For that matter, why go to war like this at all? Harry had said that Meldh had only said that "a great and fearsome god" was calling for "blood"... part of some larger plan to eliminate magic from the world. That last bit accorded with what Tineagar had said back in Tidewater. That seemed like years ago, now… Tineagar had claimed she was fighting to stop the world from breaking.

They were wasting resources, unless they had some hidden aim. Their plan had been for Meldh to take Harry's place, with Harry in some "new shape" as an enslaved advisor. But preparations for this attack must have started, at the latest, well before Hermione went to the Tower. The Muggle news, she'd learned, had begun reporting disappearances in the morning. So why were the Three essentially attacking each other? It couldn't be infighting or rivalry, since Meldh had known about it to mention to Harry. It was part of a plan. But she couldn't see what that plan's goal might be, in light of the Three's goal of ending all magic. Were they trying to start a war between Muggles and wizards? Or just trying to kill off as many wizards as possible? Or was it just a distraction from a trio of monsters who had no particular regard for the lives of others? And how would they react to the loss of Meldh?

_Oh_.

Hermione's broom wobbled as she suddenly realized something, letting go with one hand to snatch her bubbler out of her robes. She lay her will upon it, picturing Harry; he answered almost immediately.

"Harry!" she shouted, calling at the top of her voice to be heard over the wind, unwilling to slacken the pace of her speeding broom even a fraction, "Meldh was going to take your place!"

His eyes lit up, and she knew he understood: to the other two members of the Three, the world might not look any different from one in which Meldh had succeeded and was in control of the Tower. They might not have heard her use the counterspell, if they weren't near that group of wizards. They might still think everything was going according to plan.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

It was an uncomfortable moment when Draco realized he wasn't in charge. He arrived in the Great Hall with Mad-Eye and Diggory at his side and twenty aurors in tow (and one Gregory Goyle). Longbottom and Bogdanova were there, and told him that Granger had left operating orders and then had gone flying off to do her usual routine (jumping from really high, getting in over her head, discovering she was actually a bit rubbish at magic, and resorting to punching things like a Muggle). Her plans were good ones, but they still needed someone in command. The Lord Malfoy (now the greatest of that name, one of the handful of people in command of the _entire world_) drew himself up to his full height and readied himself for the burden.

But before he could begin, Mad-Eye had already taken control from a perch on the rooftop over the great doors.

"You there, get back here - get on that roof, no need to be flying around!" he roared, pointing at one of the groups in the air. "Use the castle and hold this ground! Keep them back, but Hogwarts is stone from the ancients - _use it! _And for Merlin's sake, everyone put up a _bloody bubble_!"

Chastened, Draco tapped his wand to his head, casting, "_Bullesco._" He felt the uncomfortable feeling as a bubble swelled from one nostril, inflating until it encompassed his head.

They went to work.

It soon became clear that standard dueling tactics were useless. There were simply too many of the enemy, and those methods had already failed one group of defenders. It was simple math: even if every auror was able to kill a hundred Muggles, there would still be more.

Instead, they focused on attacks that affected a wide area - not those rare spells that could do damage on a large scale, for those were deeply draining. Instead, they used attacks on the terrain, and innovative Transfigurations.

The fliers dispersed from a height something called "sarin" out among the Muggles, far away from the castle. Within minutes, it began crippling and killing huge swaths of the enemy. At the same time, other fliers dropped large metal canisters that Mad-Eye transfigured; the blastbombs detonated into fiery explosions as they landed among the Muggle horde.

Closer by, defenders picked off those Muggles who managed to reach the top of the hill and the castle walls, and used the Butterball Charm to make it almost impossible to make the approach. Some still got close enough to attack with their weapons - they became targets, too. One fired a ranged blastbomb which leapt from its tubelike gun and blew up against the castle wall, as though it were conjured fire. It did but minor damage to the school, but it was dangerous nonetheless. A massed horde of Muggles, despite their limitations, were a fearsome threat.

_It's like the ancient wars, the stories from old_, Draco thought, with a tingle of excitement and unease. Muggles dies in droves, and from a perch on a balcony above the great doors, Draco lashed out to protect everything he had come to value, fighting a war he had never really believed would come.

In only a few minutes, he was starting to feel sick. But there was nothing for it. He swallowed hard and leaned over the railing, twirling his wand, "_Stupefy! Stupefy!_" Two more Muggles fell back, stunned, dropping into a frictionless slurry of liquified stone and vanishing from sight.

A movement from above caught his eye, and he glanced up to see Granger coming back, streaking through the air at top speed. Half of her band of fanatics were gone. But it looked like she was unhurt, he saw with relief.

She dropped down from the sky and swooped down to a stop near Mad-Eye on the roof, out of sight from Draco. "Alastor, there's a force of witches wizards on the way here. Bellatrix and that American witch, Tineagar, and at least thirty others, including some of Grindelwald's old bunch."

"But not Grindel himself," gruffed Mad-Eye. "Makes sense, since they tortured him into insanity twenty years ago."

Draco didn't even have time to be shocked by this news, as Granger went on. "There's worse… ten basilisks and almost as many rock-monster things - from the old legends, the terresque. And… and -"

Her voice ended in a strangled cry before she found her words again. "And something _else_. I don't know what, some sort of _creatures_. They're so _fast_ and spells didn't _work._"

"Harry's in the library," replied Mad-Eye. Then he shouted at someone Draco couldn't see, calling roughly, "You lot, get down here!"

The Shichinin flew in from Draco's left, joining the pair on the roof. Draco turned his attention back to the battle as an explosion concussed the air, claiming another dozen lives, and picked off two more Muggles who'd separated from the pack and nearly reached the castle.

Less than a minute later, the monsters arrived. Draco had never seen anything like them. Giant serpents - basilisks, he knew. Creatures with six legs the size of buildings. They tore through Muggles like the people weren't even there, crushing them underfoot as they stormed at Hogwarts across the castle grounds.

Monsters… what did you even _do_ in a situation like this?

There was nothing _to_ do except handle one situation at a time, and wait for instructions. Three more Muggles reached the top of the slope, clambering on the partially-submerged bodies of their compatriots who had sunken into a sink of slippery stone, and Draco took them down. One of them raised a tube-weapon, but Draco thought he took him down in time.

The next instant, everything went black and pain, jumbled up in a riot of impact. Draco found himself staring at the side of the castle, lying on the stones in front of the great doors.

He lay there, ears filled with white noise, and tried to understand what had happened.

Draco rolled over onto his back, and coughed. It hurt abominably, as though something inside him was torn. But he couldn't stop himself, and coughed again, spasmodically.

He stared up at the roof of the castle. Granger and the Shichinin were in flight again, a tight bunch. They flew down to him, pausing in the air a dozen yards away.

_No time for this, do whatever you asinine plan might be_, Draco thought, scornfully. Weakly, he lifted a hand, and flapped it in a dismissive gesture.

Granger nodded at him, something unrecognizable on her face. She turned and waved at one of the Weasley twins, Merlin knows which one, and pointed down at something on the ground, out of Draco's view. "Fred!" she shouted, barely audible through Draco's ringing ears, "You guys take those and get high! Wait for my signal!"

Draco put a hand to his forehead, and it came back red and wet. He felt dizzy and nauseous. Bile rose in his throat, and he leaned over to vomit. When he was finished, he'd barely straightened before he needed to throw up again. His legs felt weak, and he swayed in place, staggering to the side as he tried to stay upright.

A strong grip seized his forearm, held it tight, held him in place. Dazed, he looked to find an armored child holding his arm. No, not a child. A goblin, clad all over in shining silver.

"Rest easy, wizard," said the goblin, its consonants guttural. "We'll need you yet."

Draco couldn't quite understand what he was seeing. Something was in his eyes; he swiped at his face with the sleeve of his robe, blinking rapidly as something stung his eyes. His Bubblehead Charm was broken, he realized. He needed to get it back.

But for the moment, all he could do was fight to stand as the goblin let him go. It hefted a spear in its hand, and pointed it down the slope, to where the monsters were raging.

Draco held himself upright, and felt a moment's hope.

Then he heard the strangest hooting noise.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

A solitary figure in plain grey robes, unseen and unnoticed, watched the fighting.

They paused to flick their fingers through the air, whereupon a tracery of crimson light formed a sharp arrow, directing the figure's gaze to the castle itself and an unseen target within.

The figure picked their way carefully up the steep slope towards the Hufflepuff greenhouse, which was damaged and open. Where the way was inconvenient, the ground gently shifted itself, as though the earth itself was trying to be accommodating. The lone individual stepped delicately over broken panes of grass, and slipped inside the school.

They made their way to the library.


	57. Ultimate

_Out of the night that covers me,_

_Black as the pit from pole to pole, _

_I thank whatever gods may be _

_For my unconquerable soul. _

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

The oldest stories of magical war are full of glory and drama, wrought on stage in bright colors, and entirely unlike the reality of war.

As the vile goblins or villainous Muggles or vicious warlords swarm the field, awash in blood and villainy, the valorous Lord of Emerald calls upon an ancient ritual and the eldritch might of his Staff of the Seven Words, and sweeps aside the enemy with a single, cathartic gesture. Or if it's a different sort of tale, the good-hearted baron finds himself at a loss at the climactic moment, and only the wits of his clever majordomo suffice to trick the gloating foe into a magical vow - allowing a quibble in that vow, in the end, to bring that same foe to his ruin. Or the entire action between heroes and villains takes place in the uncertain shadow of some ancient power in the distance, and in the extremity of danger, it is only the intervention of thunder from on high that resolves the dispute in favor of Goodness.

It is not that the authors of these stories were naive or ignorant of war. In a world where scholarship and warcraft were so closely linked, it was often the winner of a battle who wrote the story of the fight. Instead, a sort of _wishful thinking_ prevailed in these narratives.

Real war is a horror.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

All of the defenders had fallen back within Hogwarts where possible, barricading the doors on the three sides of the castle not protected by the lake. They found battlements and windows and balconies, and rained down destruction on their enemies. Outside, a smaller few engaged in different sorts of combat, fighting with growing desperation.

Oddly enough, Hogwarts was not ideally suited for battle. The school was an ancient sanctuary of arcane lore, raised up when the world was wilder and magic was mightier, but it had seldom ever been directly challenged. Despite all probability and the disruptive nature of magic, there had not been a violent change of regimes in Britain since the time of Merlin, when the Wizard's Council was established - the riotous Thing that preceded Merlin's Wizengamot and the world's Confederation. Only two villains had ever dared to attack the walls of the castle-school, and they had met swift and sure ends.

An outside observer might even say, on balance, that magical history was suspiciously tidy.

Despite these limitations, however, the castle was a formidable fortification. And once the defenders were forced to fall back within its walls, they devoted everything they could spare to preserving their strength. It was all too apparent that, should the walls of the castle fail, it would be impossible to coordinate any sort of defense. There was no motte to which they could retreat, or even any internal system of defense beyond the unreliable will of the building itself. It was a single keep, and they could not allow it to fall.

They used every force and trick and power at their command, and the powers that be had called in every ounce of strength that could be spared from other fights.

In different corners and in secret places, there were portkeys held in reserve. Portkeys to Hogsmeade, portkeys to the Receiving Room or other places in Hogwarts, and portkeys to the Forbidden Forest. Most were illegal. All that could be found, were used. Too few came, for there were other wars and other battles. At the Ministry of Magic, a heroic handful had held their ground. At Godric's Hollow, a force of goblins had met a troop of monsters in a clash that could only be called audacious. Sadder still were the calls that simply went unanswered.

It was hard to say if there was victory to be had on any front. Across the globe, much of the enemy had withdrawn or had spent itself, but even successful defenses had been ruinous. And not every defense was successful. Tidewater was cold and lifeless. The Court of Rubies was bloody and dead.

But where there were warriors to answer and means to travel, they came to Scotland. They came to the defense of Hogwarts and the Tower, the center of a global war and the thoughts of all. From America and Russia and Korea and China they came. From the Free States and the Sawad and Cyprus and Cappadocia and Norden they came. From France and Germany and Hungary and Chile and New Zealand they came. From everywhere they could, they came.

And those in a position to know gradually came to understand that there could be only two outcomes here, as day reddened into dusk and nightmare hordes met castle wall:

Either Hogwarts and wizards would survive this night.

Or they would not.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

Hermione could hear Edgar Erasmus screaming. At some point, the pompous wizard, engaged in aerial battle high above, had been toppled from his broom by a gust of wind. When he fell, a goblin took the opportunity to dart forward and bury a spear into the man's belly. The spear had already claimed the life of a basilisk, and now an acid venom was wracking Erasmus' wound. He howled with agony, eyes fixed wide and face red, clutching at his stomach and writhing, legs slopping and flopping in a puddle of liquified stone. Most of the hill on the east side of the castle had been made into a ruin of shattered rock and enchanted soil. There were precious few Muggles left here, but the ones that were present could barely make their way forward through the devastated terrain… and most of the ones that managed were cut down by the careless and indiscriminate attacks of giant serpents and unliving creatures of rock, who did not differentiate between friend and foe.

Edgar Erasmus was in very much the wrong place, and his screams of agony spoke of that mistake. This was no place for humans. This was a primeval battle against horrors.

And as she heard him scream, Hermione Granger found herself thinking, _No time for mercy, _and - to her shame - not even knowing what she meant by the thought.

Shuddering, she brought the axe in her hand down a third time, and the head of the terrasque parted from its body, falling free. Its mouth fell open to let a cloud of stinking vapor escape, and the heavy carcass dropped to the ground with a crash that knocked nearby Muggles off their feet. It landed on Hermione's right foot. She barked a short cry of pain and instinctively yanked herself free, leaving behind at least one toe but keeping her footing. She turned to look for a new target, keeping her gaze low as she scanned around herself.

Off to her left, she saw another terrasque as it savaged someone - Muggle or wizard or goblin, Hermione didn't know. The creature was almost impersonal as it rent the body in its jaws into gorey pieces, holding most of it down with one of its six legs and methodically tearing away with its sightless lion's head of black stone.

She felt rather than saw the basilisk as it struck at her, and she lunged to the side, chopping down awkwardly with the axe. The goblin silver sank into the enormous serpent - a glancing blow. The blade sliced its way free and off to the side. Before she could move, one of the basilisk's coils or possibly just _another basilisk_ collided with her back, swatting her with the strength of a freight train.

For a moment, Hermione lost track of things.

When she found herself again, she was on her rear, sitting with her back to something hard. She jerked her gaze back down to the ground. _As if fighting giant monsters wasn't hard enough you can't even _look at their eyes _or else you die_, she thought, dazedly. Erasmus was still screaming.

She heard the clank of metal boots - it was that trio of goblins who'd just joined the fight, Hermione realized. The ones who gave her the axe. She glanced at the sound, cautiously.

One of them was in full plate armor in a medieval sort of style, while the other two only wore breastplates and helmet. The armor was silver and gold and brass; some pieces were bevelled and decorated with engravings, while others had simple and clean lines. All three carried shields. For reasons that Hermione didn't fully grasp, all the goblins now had shields, even when it made it difficult to wield their chosen weapons.

She felt stupid, as if she should understand why, but that didn't help.

A green bolt came from a defender on the battlement above her and streaked out of view down below. Hermione was glad someone on their side could still cast the spell; she hoped they had hit a basilisk. Her own wand was in its holster. The axe had proven more effective.

She reached behind herself to feel the stone of the castle. Hermione had damaged it, cracking it with the impact of her body. If it had been mundane stone, she'd have gone straight through it, she thought; the stuff of Hogwarts was barely chipped. She found the edge of a stone and pulled herself up.

As the goblins charged past her, she looked at where they were going, scanning the torn and smoking ground carefully until she could see the giant curving form of the basilisk in her near-peripheral vision. Then she launched herself forward, following the three goblins as they charged. Two of them raised their swords, and one of them set a spear-butt in the crook of his elbow. All three of them raised their voices in guttural cries she couldn't understand.

A gleam of silver - her axe. Hermione snatched it up in her golden gauntlet as she ran. She heard the basilisk hiss, and saw a flash of movement as it struck. One of the goblins hurtled past her, broken.

The other two kept charging, roaring like heroes. She joined her voice to theirs, and followed them.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

Draco couldn't move his right arm. Much of it had been torn away, removed with great gouges by one of the dog-like things that were racing around, tearing apart victims. He couldn't quite get a grasp on them - they weren't properly visible, but just seemed like smears of insane nonsense. Rough impressions: _Wide mouth. Sucking discs of teeth. Pale eyes of blue cataracts. Knotty muscle._

What was left of his arm hung limply from his shoulder, as though it weren't even a part of him. At least the potion had stopped the bleeding. Kept him alive. That ugly little American had given it to him. Hig. The fellow was down the hall, with Gregory Goyle. At a different window. A different defense.

They'd managed to kill three or four of the things. The Killing Curse worked, and maybe other curses as well, Draco wasn't sure. They moved so quickly, leaping around faster than anything could move, faster than anything _should be able to move_, and their every touch brought bloody blight to their victims. Wards and shields could stop them, but when they struck even something as doughty as a Prismatic Sphere, it was as though they hit with the force of a dragon. Draco had thrown up a ward to deflect one of the human-shaped monsters from entering through the window he was defending, and the blow it had dealt his spell had brought him to his knees. He hadn't fallen, but only just. He could feel the magic positively _drain_ out of him.

Draco lifted his wand, held it in Ochs. There were some Muggles below, but they were thin on the ground. And in light of the other creatures, they seemed quaint with their cricket bats and knives. None of them had guns or explosives, and so they weren't worth his attention.

The sun was setting, and all the light was red. It would be night, soon.

A flash of motion leapt past the window, and Draco heard a scream from somewhere.

He leaned against the curved side of the window. He wanted to fall to the ground. He wanted to weep. He wanted to sleep.

But he would not. Some things were stronger than sleep or weakness or death. He would fight.

Then he heard a hooting sound, and this time he was too slow with his shield. Before he knew what exactly had happened, he was on the floor before the window, and something was on him. He'd lost his wand, it was gone, he couldn't do anything.

It was one of the flying ones, and it was on his shoulder and one side of his chest

and

he felt

pain ripping

and

he heard

a wet sound

of flesh tearing

and the crackle

of bone

splintering

and the pain

was killing him

he screamed

he screamed

he screamed

he screamed

he went away for a moment

and remembered

"_Draco," Harry said. "Thank you for coming. I… well, thank you."_

"_What do you want, Potter?" Draco said, staring at the other boy. Potter had his face all screwed up, brows furrowed, as he always looked when he was about to be unbearably earnest. Looking at him made Draco feel sick - a deep and bitter disgust that tasted of acid._

_Potter closed his eyes. "I want to make you a promise. A promise about your father. I want to -"_

"_Harry Potter," said Draco, his voice a dangerous hiss. "Be very careful what you say next." He could feel the acid on his tongue, but even more, it was burning in his veins. The rage and hatred. The things that made him weep at night, as he forced his face into his pillow and sobbed with great wracking cries. The things that made the presence of his mother a cruel thing, because they were very nearly strangers and his father was freshly buried. The things that made him so eager to hurt someone, these days. "Be very careful," he repeated._

_Potter hesitated, opening his eyes to look back at Draco. Green eyes, filled with compassion. Draco wanted to spit in them._

"_Listen," said Potter. "I've been thinking about what I owe… about the shape of things, and the degree to which my own arrogance and blindness have hurt others. And you'll understand more about that, soon, I think, but…" He paused, looking at the ground. "Draco, I want to make you a promise. A promise to try my hardest to do something. And I don't want anything from you in exchange, not even your friendship. I want _nothing_ from you. This isn't about you. It's about… terminal values." The other boy stopped again, seeming to think about how what he was saying might sound. "About the things that are the most important in the world to me."_

_Draco could kill him. They were alone, and no one knew Draco was here. He had a knife, and Potter wouldn't expect that._

"_Draco," said Potter, "I am sorry your father is dead. Truly and absolutely. With all my heart." A flash of something came across the boy's face - regret, somehow. "But I have seen impossible things. Magic is an impossible thing - or rather, it is _all _possible things, which is pretty much the same thing. It's brought… Hermione is back, and magic has made the space between death and life, which was already not very wide, into something that seems so small. Magic is…" Potter closed his mouth, shaking his head. "Sorry, I'm not saying what I mean. I'm not saying this very well."_

_Potter folded his arms, and hugged himself. Draco stared at him._

"_I… Draco, I don't know how to say this. If it will seem insulting or crazy or what. So I'm just going to say it and hope you know that I mean it," the other boy began again. He raised his eyes, and met Draco's gaze._

"_I intend," said Harry Potter, "to spend the rest of my life working to stop anyone from dying again - everyone's father and mother and son and daughter. And I intend to bring back those that have died, through whatever ritual or spell that needs to be invented to cross that last remaining gap of time."_

"_Draco," Harry said, "I promise to try my hardest for the rest of my life to try to bring back your father."_

_And there was an instant, right then, when the Lord Malfoy very nearly murdered the Lord Potter for toying with his heart. But Draco stopped himself, and stared into Harry's eyes which did not leave his own._

_And he saw something there. He saw steel, and something harder than steel. He saw a will that would brook no obstacle and tolerate no barrier. He saw the diamond-hard will that had brought back Hermione Granger and Draco didn't know how but he _knew that had been Potter_ and he saw an honour that bound this boy to a path. He saw a promise that was stronger than sleep or weakness or death._

"_Will you help?"_

Draco's wand was in his hand. It was still in his hand.

He was there and he was alive. Something was attacking him. One of those things was attacking him. It was killing him. He didn't want to die. He wouldn't die. He couldn't die. Because...

Because he wanted to see his father again someday.

And some things were stronger than sleep or weakness. Or death.

"_Avada Kedavra!" _he cast. The thing on his shoulder vanished, dissolving in a blaze of green light that burned away the inchoate blur of murderous sensations.

He slumped back to the stone, gasping.

The world was hazy and dark. Draco blinked, rapidly.

"Sir!" A voice. "Sir, hold on, I'm here!"

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

Pip jumped as the Bloodfoot Curse rippled across the rough slates of the roof towards him. He lost his balance as he landed, one foot sliding on a tile, but caught himself with one hand. Bellatrix Black laughed at him.

This was bloody _deja vu_, really.

The fight had been going on for what seemed like hours. They had been moving to the roof, to try to use massed volleys of the Killing Curse against some of the more insane-seeming monsters that had come calling at Hogwarts tonight, but what had begun as three tight, tactical formations had dissolved into chaos as some of the enemy took the fight to them. A flaming chariot had burst from somewhere sideways of reality, drawn by a horse of fire, and it had left madness in its wake:

Ten witches and wizards with bloody sigils of hands and swords on their robes.

That skinny American witch from the Council of Westphalia, looking spidery and sour.

And that bleeding bitchy bint Bellatrix bloody Black.

Pip felt how a Gryffindor in the library must feel: lost and upset. Bellatrix was missing an arm and an eye, and she was still a better duelist than he was.

To his left, Madame Bones was fighting the American. That should have been a brief contest, but somehow the Westphalian was managing to hold off the Chief Mugwump, fighting with unimaginably queer new spells and with a sad grimness.

To his right, Mad-Eye Moody and three other aurors were fighting the Grindelwaldians. Wait, didn't they have a proper name? Something Hungarian and unpronounceable? No matter. Despite being outnumbered two-to-one, the good guys were winning. Pip couldn't even _follow_ some of the things Moody was doing. At one point, Pip could have sworn he'd actually seen one of Moody's stunners _turn in mid-air_ before hitting its target.

That had left Pip and Kwannon to fight Bellatrix Black, which seemed insane since didn't they _already know_ how that would end after last time? But there was nothing for it, and so they fought, and Bellatrix was laughing again.

Maybe one of the defenders in the air would be able to help. Pip knew that Mr. Diggory was up there, and one of the American auror squads, and the Shichinin. They had their own enemies to face, but this was _Bellatrix Black_.

Kwannon raised a shield to buy them some time, but Pip remembered the last fight - he raised his own, too. When a Breaking Drill eradicated Kwannon's barrier, the curse - following the first one almost immediately, impossibly fast - burst against Pip's redundant shield. And both of them were quick enough on the dodge to avoid the Killing Curse that blazed at them within an instant.

"Better!" shrieked Bellatrix with a laugh. "Dancing dollies!"

"_Lagann! Stupefy!" _cast Pip, at almost the same time that Kwannon shouted, "_Stupefy! Lagann!"_

Bellatrix twirled in place, cackling, and let her shield dissolve as she dodged. She had another raised almost as quickly as Pip could have blinked, and _then_ she flicked her wand in a way that Pip didn't recognize. A stream of yellow liquid burst out at the gesture, spraying from nowhere.

Caught without any idea of what the curse would do, or what shield would be appropriate, Pip did as he had been trained: he dodged again. Kwannon, trained by the same person (the curse-casting blur just behind them, in fact) did the same.

And Bellatrix anticipated it. When Kwannon threw herself to the side, a Slow Blade of Unusually Specific Destruction was waiting for her. It exploded violently.

Kwannon was thrown bodily away, and off the roof, and she was gone.

And it was at this moment that Pip wished he were a different sort of person. Someone important. A noble, or a brilliant researcher, or a seer. Or even just someone truly special. Because he knew that truly special people wouldn't die. Not this way, not after so much. Not at the moment when it mattered the most, when failure would mean the death of Alastor Moody and Amelia Bones and so many others.

He'd seen the plays. Bloody hell, working in the Tower had been like _living_ in a play. Utterly impossible things happened all the time when necessary. When the really special people were in danger, even if it was from things like the Killing Curse… well, somehow, it worked out.

Philip Pirrip was just his mother's son. He was a decent auror, and a hard worker. He could say that about himself. But in that moment, as he leapt to his feet and tried to think of what to do next, knowing that he'd already fought this battle and had lost as though he were a Hufflepuff toddler… well, he just wished he were someone else. Someone special.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_In the fell clutch of circumstance _

_I have not winced nor cried aloud. _

_Under the bludgeonings of chance _

_My head is bloody, but unbowed. _

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

Hermione saw her again. The witch in green. The one who'd been with the monsters, walking with them, _controlling_ them.

Hermione dragged her axe free of the basilisk's head. It smoked with venom. So too did the golden gauntlet on Hermione's right hand. There was a greenish tinge to both metals, now. Hermione shook the axe, and gore splattered to the ground. Where the ichor fell, the ground began to bubble and steam.

The witch was standing in front of one of the walls of the castle, and she'd sunk her hand into the stone. A terrasque stood motionless beside her, obedient as a great stone dog, as the witch in the green dress dragged her hand downward. Like a knife sliding through butter, she cut a long rent through the stone of Hogwarts, kneeling as she brought her hand all the way to the ground. Then she pulled her hand free and straightened.

This must be one of them. One of the Three. One of the leaders. The enemy.

Hermione pulled her bubbler from her robes. The back of it had been crushed in, and the decorative clamshell case was falling apart, but it still worked. "Boys?" she said.

"We're here," came the voice of one of the Weasley twins.

" 'Boys,' " scoffed the Russian witch with them.

"Be ready and watch for the high sign," Hermione said.

"You got it," replied another twin, cheerily.

Hermione put away her bubbler, and steadied herself. Then she attacked.

She shouted no challenge and no warning. She simply threw her axe at the witch, as hard as she could. It flashed through the air, whistling as it flew.

The terrasque intervened, lurching into motion, and the axe bounced off of its side, the handle hitting the creature's rough red shell.

The witch turned to face Hermione. Her face was serious, but her eyes were bright. The terrasque shifted out of the way, lumbering aside.

"Hello," the witch said. There was a husky accent in her voice. "You are Hermione Granger. You are quite magical, and quite powerful." She raised her hand. "And I think your time is done."

Hermione already had the Elder Wand in hand, and she charged.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

A figure in plain grey robes walked the halls of Hogwarts, unseen. It moved with some uncertainty - as though it knew its destination, but not the exact path. But it found its way to the library before too long.

Harry Potter didn't see. He had a bubbler in hand, and was giving urgent instructions.

"- no, it's not enough to say the word. You have to… you have to find something within yourself. You have to produce a _deliberate will_ within yourself, like you were casting wandless magic."

Harry Potter was standing at one of the library windows. A strange sort of Muggle device was set up there - a tube mounted on a tripod, pointing up at the stars. Two aurors stood on either side of it, maintaining shields across the window against any intrusion. The floor was covered in chalk markings, repeatedly rubbed away and redrawn.

This was not the Archon Heraclius Hero, perfectly reshaped into a facsimile. That was obvious. How strange. Harry Potter had won, somehow. It was beyond belief, but it had happened.

The threat personified stood there, unaware and vulnerable, and the figure studied him. Just a boy, really. The crux was still just a boy. So dangerous to everything and everyone, the age-old threat to life resolved by time's lens into this single person, and it was just a boy.

The figure permitted himself a smile.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_Beyond this place of wrath and tears _

_Looms but the Horror of the shade, _

_And yet the menace of the years _

_Finds and shall find me unafraid. _

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

The Unseelie had gathered in a tight knot outside the western walls. They were pulling someone apart, and that person was screaming. Impressions of black eyes and wide, wet mouths moved delicately and deliberately, causing pain as if it were an art.

It was horrible, but it was a respite for the defenders.

_No, not a respite,_ Draco thought. _An opportunity._

_Where was Moody? We need to take advantage of this, right now._

He shoved himself away from the wall that been supporting him, and brandished his wand. _"Expecto Patronum_."

A silver krait undulated on the stone before him, moving gently.

"Go to every wizard and witch on this side of the castle and on the battlements," Draco commanded it, and he bent his will to making _that _a thought of peace and happiness. "Tell them to find me near the entrance to Gryffindor Tower. We are going to strike."

Before the snake was gone, Draco had fumbled his bubbler out of his robes, and was contacting everyone he'd seen who was still answering.

Outside, someone was screaming.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

When Gregor Nimue and Harry Madagascar both slumped to the floor, as suddenly unconscious as though they'd been bludgeoned, Harry knew that the moment had come.

He turned around, and saw a middle-aged man in plain grey robes. A little out of shape, with a small paunch. Taller than average, but somewhat stooped. A face heavily seamed with care, and green eyes. Ancient, ancient green eyes.

"Are you him?" Harry asked.

The man smiled, softly. He had a kind face.

"Yes, Harry Potter," he said, in a voice that was mellow, and deeper than Harry expected.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

Pip had lasted only a few minutes more, and he suspected that was only by Bellatrix Black's cruelty.

"Silly billy boy," sang the insane witch, "and now such fun!"

She had captured him casually, whipping the Incarcerating Curse at him amid a torrent of attacks.

He lay there, helpless.

He had to watch as she turned on Moody, who was backpedaling away, trying to find a way to create some space. Only one auror still stood by his side against five of the Hungarians, and curses and shields were appearing and disappearing and flowing and sparking out with such rapidity that it looked more like a magical dance than intelligible combat. But there was nowhere to retreat to, and no way to create room or escape. Now he would have to have to watch. Again.

Bellatrix Black shrieked her mad laughter and struck away Moody's shield. Then again as he produced another one, but despite the desperation of his motions he still had to fight Grindelwald's soldiers. They redoubled their attacks, and Moody reached the edge of the roof, and had no more room to retreat.

Bellatrix paused, sighing a deep and happy sigh, and giggled once more. She raised her wand.

"Bellatrix!"

The cry came from above.

"Bellatrix Black!"

It was otherworldly.

"_Bellatrix Black!"_

It was enraged.

"_**Bellatrix Black!"**_

It was magnificent.

"_**BELLATRIX BLACK!"**_

It was Neville Longbottom.

He came from the sky. He didn't land, exactly - rather, he plummeted to the roof in a swooping dive, so steep that it seemed as though he would simply crash straight through the slates, but Longbottom pulled up at the last minute dead even with the slates, alighting and walking without even an instant of transition. He stepped forward and the broom clattered to the roof and Longbottom was already attacking, once twice thrice, as though gravity and timing and all the laws of possibility were mere formalities that he'd chosen to discard. Tall and terrible, the Lord Longbottom moved like the wind.

He attacked Bellatrix, and it was a thing of beauty and glory - choreographed, as if it had been practiced every day for years. High feint drawing a shield, which put him into position for obfuscation, and which in turn flowed seamlessly into three glowing offensive bolts. It was a series like any auror would learn... but rather than two or three spells in sequence, Longbottom attacked without ceasing, a rhythmic and timed flow of variety and passion. He switched from low attacks to broad ones, raised wards and then shattered them with surprising new offensives, and stripped away Bellatrix's defenses with a hurricane of attacks.

In an existence that threatened to become overcrowded with the unbelievable, Pip still found room for astonishment.

Bellatrix laughed; high-pitched, insane. "Silly little do-" she began, but a flurry of attacks cut her off, and she was forced to defend herself. "Silly bi-" she began again, only to again be forced to bark out a shield of crystal and dodge away from danger.

"You -"

"Silly bi-"

No one could be standing after attacking endlessly, relentlessly, unstoppably, but Neville Longbottom never broke his stride and never broke his sequence. One spell followed another, one attack followed another, one shield followed another. No openings, no weaknesses, no opportunities, no respite.

Bellatrix Black's laugh broke. She lashed away attacks and raised wards and cast curses, but she was not fighting a wizard. She was fighting an elemental force.

And every taunt and every joke and every insanity was cut off by some new attack. Every word broken by offense. Every moment under siege.

"That's -"

Longbottom advanced without pausing, never breaking stride. He was discarding his humanity, and doing it despite eyes streaming with tears.

"No -"

"You -"

And finally, Bellatrix's mad smile cracked as she desperately ducked the hundredth attack, and she shrieked with a voice full of fear, "_Stop!_"

And like a wrathful god, Neville Longbottom, a thousand feet tall and burning with brimstone, roared in return, "_That's what __**they said**__ to __**you**__! __**Avada Kedavra!**_"

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

Hermione's duel with the witch in the green dress was a strange thing.

The Goddess charged, wand raised, already casting. The enemy sneered, raising her own hands, and lightning surged between them.

The Elder Wand took it from the air.

Hermione's attacks fell uselessly against the witch's shields, which barely glowed a gentle silver as they absorbed one curse after another. The witch's attacks found no purchase, for the Elder Wand moved of its own accord, assisting its true owner, obliterating magics as though they were a child's whisper.

Hermione closed the distance, and they fought. Spells fell on shields. Spells fell on wand-wards. The duel was a storm without wind.

Almost as an afterthought, the Goddess crushed the head of a terrasque with her golden gauntlet, which carved through the creature with the burning fury of basilisk venom. But she could gain no traction against the witch in the green dress, who evinced neither strain nor dismay.

"Foolish monkey," said the witch, her voice punctuated by the wordless thrusts of her hand which sent green light and burning flame and sharp crystal cascading into Hermione's wand-borne defenses. "Didn't you know there was only ever one outcome, here?"

"I did," said Hermione, panting. "And so now would be good, gentlemen."

She lashed out at the witch with every ounce of belief and faith and grief, and the enemy's wards glowed bright under duress. Hermione's other hand landed like a titan's hammer immediately afterwards, a crushing blow dealt with a troll's strength.

At the same instant, there were two sharp cracks, almost simultaneous. Twin gunshots, fired from above.

The first rifle shot shattered the witch's shield. The second passed through her stomach.

Perenelle du Marais screamed, and it was loud, and it was long.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

Draco looked over his troops. Perhaps a hundred wizards and witches. Weary, ragged, wounded, crammed into the small room where the Gryffindor stairs met the main hallway. Three watching at the windows, where the horror-things were pulling apart their victim. He clutched his ruined arm with the other to stop it from swaying - _he_ was swaying, bloody hell. No, this would not do.

Unbreakable honour.

The Lord Malfoy forced himself to straighten up. Black shapes danced in front of his eyes, and for a moment everything went dull and far away, but he held himself upright. He held himself like a Malfoy.

His face was out of control. Draco mastered it, arranging it how he pleased: a cold look of confidence. His body was a tool, his to wield.

His voice. Before he spoke, he felt the blood in his mouth and throat. No. He swallowed it back, swallowed down the bile and blood. Cleared his instrument.

"We're attacking. A massed attack. The enemy is gathered together. They're not afraid. They should be."

"We'll die," offered Reg Hig. Not opposition, but resignation.

"We might. But we are already dead. This way, we'll have a chance.."

_No, this is… no, it's weak. The stuff of desperation and stupidity… last resorts persuaded no one. _Damn you_, Draco, focus on their weakness, not ours_, he thought to himself. _Where are you? You are the knife. Cut._

"Listen to me, all of you," Draco said, and he put steel in his voice. "I won't pretend to believe in everything that the Tower believes. I won't tell you any pretty stories about the way the world might be. Listen to me when I tell you that we need to act now to protect the way the world _is_, and everything that's in it. Listen to me when I say that magic exists and it is precious, and we need to protect it.

"I am not the sort of person they call 'good,' " he said, and now the steel came of itself, and he stood even taller, and he heard his father's voice in his own. "I am the sort of person who gets results. Against all odds. Against a united country and a united world, I have gotten results. Because there are things that are more important than you or me or even this bloody school. There are things more important than our blood or our very age. There is magic in this world, in every wand here and every soul, and they will crush it if we let them."

He raised his wand into the air, and it glowed with a fire he felt mirrored in his soul.

"So when I say to you that now is the time and when I ask if you will follow me, know that it is true and we will win. For there is something greater than goodness and greater than even these odds, and that is _us_!"

_What arrent nonsense_, thought the Lord Malfoy, as he spoke honeyed lies.

A hundred wands rose in response.

And from high above, there was a new sound. Many voices, raised in a single call.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

"Who are you?" asked Harry, lowering the bubbler. He left it open, Luna listening on the other end.

"Merlin," answered the man, simply. He watched Harry, arms folded.

Despite everything, Harry felt himself shiver at the name. He knew that it might well be a lie - certainly it was the lie he'd have chosen, in this man's place - but it could also be true. It was more plausible than any of the other possibilities, if the law of parsimony was any guide: Merlin applying a secret, guiding hand, working to prevent the doom that he'd foreseen… well, it broke no rules of time travel and required no additional elements.

Harry had anticipated other possibilities, of course. Albus Dumbledore, trapped beyond time - that could well have put him in some ancient era before the Mirror was made. Or Garrick Ollivander, whose familial presence in Britain had been suspiciously unchanging for most of wizarding history. Or Harry himself, returning from a future where they'd mastered all knowledge, acting to ensure the realization of that future. Or some random, unnamed individual, hidden perfectly from sight throughout all time and legend.

But ultimately, what plausible candidate made sense, other than the one who had famously acted from the start to try to limit magic and preserve the world?

"You're here to destroy me and save the future of the world," Harry said. He kept his voice rigidly formal. "And for that, sir, I respect you. It is even possible that -" his voice faltered as he remembered J.C. Kraeme's bloodied body, the death of Hermione and Granville, and the hundreds of thousands who had already died today, but he pressed on. "It is even possible that you have done the right thing."

Merlin nodded solemnly, his smile fading from his face. "Then you understand."

"I do," said Harry. For a moment, he felt the absurdity of the moment. This was a moment that might spell the difference between a world of magic and advancement, a world where death could be defeated and Dumbledore could be retrieved, and… and a different world. A darker timeline. And all of that was riding on this simple, clumsy conversation.

"But," Harry went on, as Merlin raised his hand, "your map is wrong."

Merlin didn't lower his hand, but only tilted his head. Just slightly. An invitation.

"You must have known of Albus Dumbledore - perhaps you even knew him, somehow," said Harry. "I sometimes wonder if he was the wisest man I've ever known, or the merely the bravest. He ransacked the Hall of Prophecy and used his knowledge of the future to guide its shape. He didn't believe prophecies could be truly averted, I think, and he might have been right. In retrospect this seems obvious, but people like Tom Riddle spent years trying to avoid one prophecy or another, and they always failed." Harry shrugged. "I've never heard of a prophecy that was simply wrong. And if my readings are correct, you agree with him."

"So you know this, then: I, Harry Potter-Evans-Verres, will tear apart the stars."

Merlin nodded his head, slowly. His eyes were amused and curious, but they held a fundamental flatness. Harry couldn't imagine what that might be - some jadedness from such a long life, a precommitment to ignore all persuasion, or something beyond his ken - but he had no time to worry about it. He pushed forward, and felt his thoughts begin to catch fire.

Once upon a time, a lonely little boy had gone to a strange school. He was a prophet of new ideas, and saw things in a new way - he was the needle's point of a black slash that cut from one entire civilization into another, bringing the force of thousands of years of accumulated knowledge to bear on a point forged by trauma into diamond strength. And yet not a single jot or tittle of that had mattered, in the end. So little of the boy's cleverness had actually been brought to bear. His beliefs were the hard uphill way, and even a prophet was not immune to easy answers.

It was not until the end that the boy had grasped the real meaning of his own beliefs, and had ascended. Rationality was _winning_.

Harry's mind blazed like an inferno. He raised his hand.

"First." He held up a finger. "Only two people are known to have ever mastered all the wizards and witches of the world. Both, I think, did it for a good cause. But consider that for all your power and your age, I have done what you did… and I have done it without force, and by granting life and power, and I have done it in only seven years. I am your equal in this respect, and if you underestimate me now, then think about the fate of everyone else who has done so. Think of your ally, Heraclius Hero.

"Second." He held up another finger. "Events are already in motion to ensure that magic and humanity survive. The Tower is gone, and the Mirror which was the door. It has found a new place." _High above us, _Harry thought. _Six hundred kilometers high, so that its light-cone encompasses the whole planet._ "Some friends of mine wait there - waiting to find out whether I live or die. I will not tell you their instructions. But know that we all lie within the mirror now.

"Third." He held up a third finger. "You have several times attempted to disrupt my designs. You arranged for the destruction of my first facility, killing my friend in the process. And this very day your ally tried to enslave me. And yet I am here, and he is gone."

Harry's mouth grew firm. He met Merlin's eyes for a long moment, and then moved those three fingers: thumb poised against forefinger and middle finger. Ready to snap.

"So think. Stop and think. You have a map in your head - a mental map of reality. As you move through the world, you can trace your path on it. You can tick off events as you come to them; that's how you know your map matches reality. When you're surprised, it's not because reality is wrong... it's because your map is wrong. When you realize that, you have two choices: you change your map, or you get lost."

Merlin stared at him, and all vagueness and flatness was gone. In its place was the raptor gaze of someone who was beyond death and weakness, who had weighed human life and discarded it when it interfered with his will.

"Consider whether you have been surprised by events. Consider whether this is unfamiliar ground. Consider your fallen allies. Consider your derailed plans," Harry said, and his voice was soft. "Stop and think, and consider: do you want to keep moving in this direction? Or might there be other surprises waiting for you?"

"I will give you the same chance that Lord Voldemort - that Tom Riddle - was given, before I took his life. I will give you the same chance that Meldh had, before I took _his _life. Stop now, and go in peace.

"Or I will end you."

Harry didn't waver, and he was not afraid.

And it wasn't because he knew of some ultimate sanction or greater plan.

And it wasn't because he knew that Hermione would save the day with some impossible feat.

And it wasn't because he had faith in something greater than himself.

Harry did not waver because this moment laid bare his heart, the white-hot line of humanity at his center, slashing through the black arc of Tom Riddle and cutting through every obstacle in his way. Harry did not waver because he had tested all things and held fast to that which was true, and he had set that truth in service of the good with every last ounce of strength and will and might.

And for Harry James Potter-Evans-Verres, that was the purpose of life.

"So?" said Harry.

From outside, a woman screamed, long and loud. The scream of a dying woman.

Within a moment, another cry joined with the first: the sound of a hundred phoenixes, their call like the birth of a new world.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_It matters not how strait the gate, _

_How charged with punishments the scroll, _

_I am the master of my fate, _

_I am the captain of my soul. _

"Invictus," by W. E. Henley

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

Merlin studied Harry closely.

And turned.

And left.


	58. Epilogue

_ἔσχατος ἐχθρὸς καταργεῖται ὁ θάνατος·_

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_The Tower_

_June 1st, 1999_

_Three weeks later_

Hermione gave herself a moment to look around the room, moving from face to face. So few familiar faces: Percy Weasley, Amelia Bones, and Dolores Umbridge. Percy was smiling confidently on her left, while Amelia and Dolores were engaged in whispered conversations with their neighbors.

Many more of those present were relatively new, either to her or to the Tower. He Jin of the Court of Rubies. Per Aavik-Söderlundh-Ellingsen, on mission for the nobility of Europe. And others: a Westphalian appointed by Hig, who was now unchallenged in his dominance over the surviving rump of the Council; several wizards and witches from various strata of the Confederation, chosen as representatives-at-large; a goblin who was present in the same capacity, nominally representing Beings; a domovoi of Russia sent by the Thunderer on behalf of the Slavic tradition; and wizards from Nigeria, Dunedin, and Chile.

It was almost a parody of oligarchy, with stronger states and Things trying to cement their local power. The small nods towards democracy would have been pathetic if they hadn't actually represented progress.

_Every little step is important, but there's still so much work to do,_ thought Hermione. _Proportional regional representation for wizard; similar representation for Beings and some sort of system for Muggles; a federal system to incorporate adversarial interests; strong backing for select NGOs for science and healing... and so much more_. She could almost see the future stretching out ahead of her, in all of its strangeness and complexity.

It might have been disheartening if Hermione hadn't been so eager to get started. There were so many lives to save, and she was in a position to help without a minute of delay. She smiled. Not one more minute.

_All right, then. Time to do a little dance._

"Thank you, everyone, for coming," said Percy. "You should all have an itinerary, but I have extras if you need them. If you don't mind, we'll begin with introductions, and then we'll lay out our current status and our future plans."

"There is much we need to do," broke in Per, ignoring the orderly start of the meeting and the offered itinerary, his face haggard and serious with urgency. Percy looked mildly annoyed. "We must begin immediately to work on our defenses. The Muggles and the monsters and the other things… we must plan for their control."

He Jin cut in after the Norden diplomat, leaning forward and pointing out in calm and clipped words that the strange blurry monsters with fishlike eyes had been spotted in Ulan Bator a day ago, and there was no telling where they might go next.

The Westphalian agreed, nodding along with the mandarin and adding, "Our resources are a fraction of what they were, and it's taking everything we have simply to maintain the Statute of Secrecy. And that's not even mentioning the villains behind it all - the ones Reg called the 'Three.' "

"Yes," said Hermione, rising up from her seat slightly. The others quieted, and attention focused on her. "You are all absolutely right," she said, and she put force behind her words: cold steel. She pressed her lips tightly together, then gave a small nod, as though in confirmation of some inner resolution.

"Our current situation has become untenable," she continued. "If another attack arrived, we'd be wiped out. There is one member of the Three at large, assuming we have not fallen prey to misinformation in that regard - I can imagine a clever group adopting a misleading name - as well as a small army of Unseelie and many other threats. Even with the help of new allies," and she nodded to the Curdite who was there on behalf of the goblins and other Beings, "we have barely been able to hold things together. Thousands and thousands of people and goblins lost their lives on Götterdämmerung, and we are vulnerable as never before."

"Then now is the time to take hold of the Muggles, as our enemy did, and as we once did in old times," said the Russian domovoi. "We must command their numbers for our own." The New Zealand representative nodded her head, vigorously.

"Yes," agreed Hermione once more. Amelia and Dolores ended their hushed conversation, turning to look at her with shock and disbelief, and even Percy turned to stare at her. "I know that for many of you, this will be unimaginable, but I agree: it's the only way. The world has changed, and all of us have seen things happen that we never could have believed."

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_Elsewhere._

_At the same time._

Limpel Tineagar's face had been frozen into an unpleasant expression of dismay and pain. Reg Hig was reminded of the stories of how the Eleusinian Mysteries had punished its enemies, petrifying them into living statues and then enchanting their limbs so that they could be adjusted into humiliating positions. It seemed petty to today's scholars of history, but its effectiveness couldn't be discounted - the Mysteries had maintained their hegemony over all of the Mediterranean for generations.

_Not that they could do much, here_, he thought, looking at Tineagar's maimed body, floating in the air in front of him, stunned stiff. One arm cut away at the shoulder, the other at the elbow. He'd heard that Amelia Bones had done this, in the last moments of a fight on Hogwarts' roof. He wondered if it had been punitive, necessary, or simply an accident of victory. _Bones is not a cruel witch, but a new Eleusinian Mysteries has arisen. I can't ignore the implications of that, even if I am a part of it._

That last thought was some comfort, at least, he thought as he looked at the broken body of the betrayer, floating along at his wand's command. The great merchants and old families of Tidewater had been murdered, wiped out of life as thoroughly as if they'd never existed, but those Americans that were left would be an equal part of the new world. When the Council of Westphalia rose again - and that Thing _would_ rise again, even if Hig had to spend the rest of his life rebuilding its ranks and its strength - the Americas would no longer be in the shadows, jockeying for leverage within the Confederation.

"Councilor Hig, sir," called a voice, and Hig looked up, returning from his reverie. It was the head of the DMLE, young Diggory, and four others. One was an auror that Hig recognized, but not the rest… they looked nervous and unsettled. Ranks were thin all over, and Hig supposed these must be new recruits or patrol-wizards pressed into more heady service than that to which they were used.

"Director Diggory, hello," said Hig.

"Hullo," said Diggory. The young man looked haggard, but somehow that made him look even taller and more handsome. His expression was solemn, perhaps due to their surroundings. The atrium of the British Ministry of Magic still bore scars and ragged wounds on every wall and surface. The basics had been put back in order, but it would be a long time before the cosmetic damage could be repaired - and even longer before the memories would fade. Hig thought of Tidewater again, and shuddered.

"Here is my delivery," said Hig, gesturing with his wand. Tineagar's body floated between them gently, as though wafted by the wind. "Good riddance. Have your people strip her mind, and if there's anything left when you're done, tell her that her home is gone."

Diggory didn't reply, watching Hig with a sad expression. He gestured to one of the witches with him, and she cast her own levitation spell on Tineagar, taking over from Hig.

"I'll be headed back later tonight," Hig said, "after taking some time to try to get together some people."

"Checking up on friends?" Diggory asked, as he stared down at the frozen face of Tineagar.

"No," Hig said, shaking his head. "There are some ex-pats of the Americas here in Britain. From all over… Chile, Brazil, the States, Canada, _et cetera_. I'm going to touch base with a few of them and see if they'd be amenable to coming home."

"Make sense. I'm sorry about what happened."

"It could have been worse," Hig said. "Salem escaped without a scratch on a single student, thanks to the goblins and centaurs, and Houston and Buenos Aires only lost a handful. And we'll rebuild. Everyone, everywhere, needs to rebuild." He gestured broadly around the atrium, as though to illustrate his point.

"We'll be here to help."

"Thank you," Hig said, and sighed. He shook his head. "Sorry, it's too easy to be gloomy, these days. All is well with you?"

"As well as can be expected," Diggory said, nodding. "I lost some friends and a cousin, but everyone lost someone. It's been too busy to really think about it."

"Make sure you make time for yourself - to keep a clear head," Hig offered. "In fact, maybe you want to have dinner tonight? Take your mind off things?"

"Actually," said Diggory, a bit sheepishly. "I have an engagement tonight."

"I heard rumors about a long-sought romance. I suppose sometimes persistence pays off, eh?" said Hig, smiling gently. A signal to the young man - _levity is okay, even now with what happened in Tidewater, I won't be offended._

Diggory shrugged. "What can I say?" he asked. "We've all been through so much, and sometimes a person comes out the other side a bit… well, bolder, I guess. It'll be new and probably fun, and worth giving it a chance, and anyway..."

And Diggory glanced with a smile over at the group that had accompanied him, where Pip was standing guard. "...he _did_ save my life."

Pip noticed their attention. He smiled hugely and gave them a little wave. Then he returned his attention to his work, straightening himself up and returning his attention to Tineagar…. though she was hardly in a position to escape, even if she were somehow to wake, and though it didn't seem as though any amount of dutifulness could erase the smile that was plastered on his face.

"Well then," said Hig, and now his smile was rather more genuine. "I hope you have a good evening. I'm sure I'll see you soon, Master Diggory. Let's hope for the best of luck - in all our new beginnings."

When Reg Hig left the Ministry of Magic, he found himself oddly optimistic. Despite all of his common sense and despite everything he knew of history… he let himself believe that things might get brighter. Things might get better.

_Isn't it pretty to think so._

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

"Muggles are an existential threat," Hermione said, firmly, looking around at everyone at the meeting table. It was a new piece of furniture, without the scuffs and broken edge from Hermione's demonstrations of anger three months ago. New like everything else in this new Tower. "Götterdämmerung showed that to everyone, even skeptics. Harry had some strong beliefs on this, as you know, but I think we need a new plan. The Statute of Secrecy made us vulnerable, since it encouraged us to separate ourselves and gather together into little enclaves. There was a time when wizard and witch lived among Muggles, usually ruling them, and it would have been impossible to try any sort of magical genocide. We need that protection again - the protection of Muggles."

"Madame Granger," said Amelia, and her voice was harsh. "I am surprised to hear this from you. You used to moderate Mr. Potter's approach, but now you sound more extreme than he ever did. What is your idea - that we attempt to seize control? It's not even practical, even if it wasn't a gross departure from our ideals. We are so few… do you imagine we could dominate the Muggles when they have as many cities as we have people?"

"We have been intervening strategically for years," said Hermione, coolly, standing up. "On a small scale, even a handful of wizards can effect incredibly quick change at a minimum of risk."

"I hardly think a few Hit Wizard squads are good evidence," objected Dolores. "And you _know_ what they're like."

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_Elsewhere._

_At the same time._

"This seems like the perfect moment for sniping," said Neville, in a hopeful whisper. He scrunched himself forward enough to see over the rim of a huge spool of copper wire that was currently hiding him from sight, then ducked back down. "Yes, sniping it is. For sure."

"If we did that, then -" said Fred, cocking his head to the side.

"- wouldn't he be dead?" said George, cocking his head to the other side.

"No, I just need to snipe the gun out of his hand," said Neville. "That can be healed."

"Then there would be the blastbomb only to explode, I think," said Bogdanova, peering around the corner for a moment. She pulled her head back and turned to Neville with a mocking smile. "Which means all of our problems here would be gone very shortly... yes, you have convinced me."

"I can snipe his other hand, too," offered Neville. "Then he can't blow up the bomb."

"This might be one of those situations that can't be solved with sniper rifles," mused George, contemplatively.

"Although now that we say that out loud, it just sounds silly," contemplated Fred, musingly.

"We can use the Extinguishing Charm on the bomb. That will stop any detonation," said Neville. "Then the sniping."

"Snipe the hostages, as a distraction?" suggested Bogdanova. Her appearance may have changed with rejuvenation, but her attitude certainly hadn't been affected.

"Enchanted bullets, that's the ticket," said Fred.

"Zip around to both hands, whammo, knock him back and to the left," agreed George.

Neville turned to squint at George suspiciously, but the Weasley twin only smiled serenely. Neville sighed, and crossed his arms with a scowl. "Fine, fine… the same as always, then."

"Don't worry, Nev," said George, consolingly. "You'll get your chance, someday."

"There will be another time the world is about to end, and then you'll just nip in and snipe the arch-villain just in time to save everyone," said Fred, nodding.

"Happens all the time," said George.

"Definitely not a unique opportunity for awesomeness," said Fred.

The twins were grinning, now. They reached across to each other, and each tapped the other on the head. With the sound of a cracking egg, they vanished into Disillusionment.

Bogdanova waited a second, then leaned around and tugged on Neville's earlobe, affectionately. "They're not wrong, you know," she said, her tone softening. "Who knows what may happen? Think about other things of that day."

"I know," Neville said, sighing again as Bogdanova lifted her wand and tapped herself on the head, vanishing from sight with a wet crackling noise. "And I'm grateful, of course. But still… the sniping…" he said plaintively.

"Oh, come on," the invisible Russian witch said, and her voice was fond. "Let us go. There's a girl in the pond that needs rescuing."

Neville grinned, and Disillusioned himself.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

"This is good," said the domovoi, who obviously approved of the plan. Several others joined him in that attitude. Per, Percy, and Dolores looked doubtful. Amelia looked hostile. The others seemed to have reserved judgment.

He Jin cleared his throat, delicately, and asked Hermione what she was proposing.

_The fast reverse._

"We have already seen the success of making our rivals into our allies," said Hermione, gesturing at the Curdish envoy. "So we need to do the same with the Muggles. We need to turn a threat into an asset… potentially the biggest asset we could ever have. We need to eliminate the Statute of Secrecy and present ourselves to the world as a magical people. It's a risk, and we'll need to be careful, but remaining isolated has proven even riskier."

Nearly everyone seemed confused by what she was proposing, except for Amelia. Her expression softened, and displeasure was supplanted by surprise. "You're not proposing mastery at all. You're proposing the _modus meli_."

"Open and free, and as equal as we can manage," confirmed Hermione. "Not hiding from them, not ruling them, but living with them."

Per spoke up, cautiously. "If you will excuse me, that seems to be an idea with a very interesting goal, but one with too many problems. It is impossible."

"There are so many problems that it's staggering," Hermione allowed. "Every Muggle government will see magic as a weapon, so there will be a risk of global warfare - in addition to the constant threat of kidnapping or blackmail. There are also different aspects of magic that are incredibly dangerous to the untrained, but any Obliviator can tell you how hard it is to completely eliminate information from a Muggle population… which is why nearly every aspect of our magical world can be found approximated in folklore and legends, even today. And of course, there's every possibility we'd face a return to the days of witch-hunts and inquisitions… especially after recent events."

"But you believe you have a solution," Amelia said, quietly, speaking over the murmurs of the others.

"It is possible that the Mirror of Noilitov can be used to alter the terms under which our world operates," said Hermione. "It is also possible that the Goblet of Fire can be used to bind people without their conscious knowledge, if it will recognize a proxy in terms of political representatives. It is also possible that some of the new spells we will acquire from our two captive members of the Three - or even one of the ones we already possess - could be used once we have mastered them to manipulate even a global population. But we may not even need to resort to any of these, if we devote ourselves as one to this goal and find different solutions. There are many others, including mundane ones like wand control. There were only one hundred and twelve wandmakers worldwide a month ago, and there must be many fewer, now. We kept the entire world in an imperfect ignorance for centuries - surely if we really try, we can manage a transition without too much damage."

Percy was staring at her, eyes wide. He'd realized what she was saying - her _true_ message - before anyone else. But he didn't seem angry. He seemed awed.

"It might be hard," Hermione added. "But sometimes the hardest things - the things that seem the most impossible - are the things that most need to be done. The first step to finding a solution is rejecting the idea of impossibility. Then you just take the first, hard, scary step."

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_Elsewhere._

_At the same time._

Nikitas Seyhan knocked gingerly on the door to the cottage at Külek Boğazı. There was no answer. Nikitas frowned and turned around, glancing behind himself to where Tonks, Jessie, and Urg were watching. Tonks smiled and nodded, miming a knock. Nikitas turned back around and knocked a second time, more loudly. He knew he should be nervous, but really only felt a distant discomfort.

"Hello?" said a voice in the local Greek. The door cracked open, slowly.

"Is this the Seyhan house?" said Nikitas, in the same tongue. He felt like he was in a dream.

The door swung open, and a big bluff man stood there. He was bearded and florid, and his eyes were wide.

"Nikitas? You've come back to us?"

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

Dolores said something first, in a syrupy voice that was unusually quiet. "Ms. Granger… the Mirror, and the Goblet, and the new spell… aren't these all things you could have already done? Couldn't you have… Did you?"

He Jin was out of his seat, glaring at Hermione as though his eyes were capable of murder under their own power. The Westphalian had gone pale. Per was looking rapidly around him, not having yet understood but too afraid to ask.

Hermione stood and stepped away from the table, and walked to the room's window. _Dramatic pose at the window, put my silhouette against the sky. Like so._ She looked out and down, at the clouds rolling beneath the Tower as the building lightly floated along, borne up by the salvaged Aa-Khem of the Shafiq. The scarab statues had been recovered from the wreckage of _The Declaration of Intent_. The new Tower, still only a fragment of its future self, was buoyed up in the sky: unassailable, invisible, and puissant.

The people in this room represented enough power and influence to sway the Confederation. They'd fought a global war together, and now faced new challenges and a new world. They'd been forged out of a disparate and violent assemblage of fractious Things, and could now be united.

Fear could do it. She could threaten most of them. They might seek her death and plot against her, but they'd obey. She knew that Draco would do it that way, if he were in her position. A cold and intimidating speech, leveraging all his power and influence, and enlisting the weak as his enforcers.

Persuasion could do it. She could convince most of them. They wouldn't be wholly won over, and may later change their minds, but they'd agree. She knew that Harry would do it that way, if he were in her position. A bold and inspirational speech, changing as many minds as possible, and backed up with a redundant plans to handle anyone who was recalcitrant. 

But she wasn't Draco and she wasn't Harry. They'd each stepped away from these things, perhaps permanently. She was Hermione Granger, daughter of dentists, goddess. She was standing at the crux of things, and she knew the right thing to do.

Fear was limited. Draco had been afraid all of his life, in one sense, but he'd still found the courage to face the worst and overcome it. A single lever was all it took to overturn fear.

Persuasion was limited. Harry had spent years railing against insanity and irrationality, hurling evidence and reason against dull walls and burning with frustrating when they failed. He sometimes couldn't see the way the world was, out of eagerness to see it the way it should be.

Hermione knew that wasn't how you led people. It wasn't how you changed minds. She had led the Returned, and she knew why. She had led soldiers, and she knew why they'd followed her on the battlefield. She had led the people, and she knew why they wanted to touch her hand and worshipped her.

Hermione had died twice, and she knew what she'd followed back to this world. She knew what people would follow.

They followed the light.

Far below, all around the Tower, she could see bright spots of crimson glory. She heard a phoenix call, as though it saw her, and heard another answer.

Hermione turned around, and smiled, and began to speak.

She brought her own special gift. She brought hope.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry._

_Yesterday._

"It just seems unlike you, is all," Hermione said to Harry, watching him curiously. She opened a satchel and looked inside, but the extended space within was still empty.

"I think my part in this is over," Harry said, shrugging. He was silent for a moment as he finishing bolting down the Vanishing Cabinet inside of the spherical silver ship, then he stood back and surveyed his work. He nodded approvingly, and turned back to Hermione. "And I'll be within reach, from time to time. I might need help."

Hermione frowned. "You'll need a lot of books, and you might get lonely, but as far as we can tell, there's no limit to that Cabinet. You don't even really need to 'go' at all, since you could just as easily live here and check in on your ship once a month. So this is really you taking a sabbatical from everything. And that's fine, but I think I'm the one who's going to be asking you for help. Be ready to pop on through, the first time I encounter an insuperable problem."

"Well, see, here's the thing," Harry said, leaning down with a silver wire rack so that he could affix it to the interior of the ship. "You remember all of my work with Luna, looking into the nature of magic? Magical theory has come quite a ways since we started to systematically eliminate possibilities. And we found some pretty amazing things when we looked at the brains of people casting spells. We never did have enough of a chance to discuss it, I think," he mused. "Anyway, I pretty much have just one strong hypothesis now. And it fits with what we know about Merlin, and explains a lot.

"Spoken magic and wandless magic look almost the same when you see how they're expressed. BETs and POSTs and all the rest in specific patterns, even though the interference each spell generates might be completely different. The same effect, the same patterns. It's not a far inferential leap to conclude that the pattern is a command, like you might give to a computer. If you're magical in nature, then something in the universe knows to pay attention to that command.

"Now, it's possible that it's just the nature of the universe that specific electrochemical patterns in our neurology trigger complicated phenomena. I've read weirder theories. But that opens up a big question: why are we the only ones?

"It's the Fermi Paradox on an even bigger scale. There are so many planets where life could evolve, out there in the universe. And the existence of magic means that a lot of the normal answers probably don't work. Distance and difficulty don't seem like they could possibly matter once any magical civilization is advanced enough, and some of those lifeforms that probability suggests must exist would end up being magical, just like humans.

"Now, there's a lot of possible explanations. Maybe magic makes it even more difficult for life to evolve than we thought, somehow. Or maybe there are magical barriers we don't know about, blocking us off.

"But then I think about Merlin, and what he was afraid of, and how he… well, he backed down, when it came down to it."

Hermione's jaw had dropped open and she'd forgotten to breathe since Harry had said the words "Fermi Paradox." He continued on.

"I didn't present him with very much new information, when it came right down to it. He must have already known Meldh had been defeated, and they'd been watching me so they already knew the other things I said. And I told him that prophecies always come true, but I learned that from a book that _quoted Merlin_. So why did he go?

"Maybe he's just biding his time. Maybe he's seeking a way to neutralize our advantages. Maybe he was just suddenly persuaded.

"But someone that powerful with that much lore and prophecy…" Harry shook his head. "I'm not sure about that. Because I'm thinking of what Merlin's goal might really have been, and about a thing called the Great Filter, and…" He paused, then continued. "No, I think that -"

"Wait," interrupted Hermione. "Just wait. Because I think you're about to tell me that you think the British wizard Merlin is an alien from another planet, sent here to watch us or guard us or something. And that maybe aliens invented magic? And that is…" She frowned. "Just… no. Put a pin in that. I can't handle that right now."

Harry grinned. "I imagine a computer somewhere, advanced beyond our furthest dreams, that fulfills commands to users it recognizes. And we just happen to have matched that pattern in the wierdest way. But all right. Another time, then. Or until it becomes more urgent."

Hermione was silent for a long period, while Harry continued packing away supplies. Lots of redundancies and failsafes, since this was a journey into the unknown. He'd be pushing against new limits and uncertainties about all sorts of materials and spells.

After a while, the witch spoke again. "How do you know that this will work? And where to go?"

"Prophecy," Harry said, shrugging. "Which is the only way I can even do this, since I know I will succeed someday. Eventually. I just need to head to the Scorpion and the Archer… Scorpius and Sagittarius. Something is locked beyond return along that path. Just by coincidence, that's also where astronomers think a black hole is situated, at the center of our galaxy. So that's where I'll go, and we'll see if that's where Dumbledore is now. If it's where Atlantis is now. If it's where all the things locked beyond return are trapped outside of time. It's inconvenient and crazy, but sometimes so is the world."

"How far is it?" asked Hermione.

"26,000 light years or so," answered Harry, grinning. "Although I expect to find faster ways to travel than the speed of light."

"I feel as though we're saying goodbye," Hermione said, and her voice trembled a little. "Which is stupid, because you'll probably be back for lunch next week, once you start to need someone to talk to. But you really are leaving."

"I'm leaving," Harry said.

"And you're leaving me in charge."

"You're in charge," Harry agreed. "Oh, I have three things to give you! Might as well give them over now."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a milky-white stone. "The Spirit Stone. The last of the Deathly Hallows. Yours now in truth, along with the others." She accepted it, wordlessly. It was also reportedly a Horcrux of Voldemort. A research project: how to break those ties.

He tugged on the fingerless glove on his right hand, pulling it free. A pained expression passed over his face, but he didn't hesitate. He offered it to her, and again Hermione took it.

She glanced at his other hand, at the decoy glove he always wore, but he smiled a wry smile. "No, I'm going to hang on to this one. I discovered something useful about it, recently. No, the third thing is a ritual. It's a sacrificial ritual… a dangerous one, but an important one. The most important one, really."

"You… wait, what?"

"It was one of the only things I could think to do, at the end. I couldn't fight, not really. And I only knew one thing that had impressed anyone in the Three. A ritual that he saw in my mind, one I'd never actually done. I had it in my mind, all the principles - I'm really not sure how to explain it, it just works out somehow, when you're inventing a spell - and Meldh had told me I was being stupid not to use it." Harry pulled a folded parchment from his pocket, carefully, and handed it over to her. "I still think he's wrong, and I'm still not sure if it's the right thing. But I did use it once. To fulfill a promise. I picked a star that seemed least likely to have any negative consequences… a Bok globule that would only have existed as a star for a few thousand years, as best I could figure."

Hermione took the parchment. She didn't know what to say… didn't know how to react to a succession of surprises that seemed too great to be borne. All she could think was a single sentence, a miraculous sentence that embraced the multitude of stars scattered throughout her mind's eye, each one now with a name: _We can save everyone._

She smiled gently. Her eyes were wet.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_Malfoy Manor_

The small family accepted no visitors, and seldom left the house.

It was a strange, new way to live: as though ambition were sated, as though ambition had reached its natural end. Surely, it was temporary - for the gnawing of desire never rests for long - but for a time, the family wanted for nothing. They were together, and they were content.

Sometimes they played music, or had long conversations, or spent entire afternoons in cooking elaborate meals. But often, they simply sat with each other in silence. It was a happy and full silence where nothing needed to be said, because everything important was known.

From time to time, Draco would close his eyes and hold them that way for a long time, before opening them again. As though testing what he was seeing.

But nothing changed, and every time he would open them again, Draco would see his father anew, holding his mother's hand.

He smiled gently. His eyes were wet.

≡≡≡Ω≡≡≡

_Somewhere beyond Earth and everything else we know. Somewhere in the darkness of space._

_Soon._

Harry took a deep breath, and then let it out, slowly. It sounded very loud inside of his ship.

He held the glove from his left hand, and examined it with a smile. He touched the curved fragment of the Cup of Midnight that was bound there. A decoy he'd worn for years, to balance the Stone of Permanence. Impervious to harm and enchantment and damage, and always close to him.

He pushed hard on the underside of the smooth piece of pottery, twisted it to the side, and then pushed down on it. There was a small click, and the piece of broken earthenware slid upwards, revealing the round aperture to an extended space sheltered beneath.

Harry set the glove on the floor of the ship. He reached over to pick up a book from a small shelf where he'd placed it earlier, and then stepped into the glove. It drew him in, delicately.

Finding his way past all of the traps and security precautions had taken him weeks. Removing a substantial part of a mass of tungsten had taken almost as long, since he'd needed to be extremely careful. In this, after all, he was entirely alone.

But he'd done it.

He sat on a small stool, and smiled. "Hello, Professor. I brought a book, and I thought I'd read to you today."

"That would be acceptable, Mr. Potter," said Voldemort.

"It's called _The Feynman Lectures on Physics_, and it's one of my favorites."

"Is it long?"

"Yes."

"Then begin at your leisure, Mr. Potter."

Harry didn't begin right away. He just looked at the box for a moment.

He smiled gently. His eyes were wet.


End file.
